In time
twenty years
will no longer be a lifetime,
but an imperfectly remembered fraction
'less you've been the rare one
journaling the everyday
that seemed so very unimportant way back then.

Paper. Pen.
    Let's write out our feelings.
    "I'm having a rough time."
Cell phone
Online recipes.
    I should cook that soon.
Hotel websites.
    Free breakfast? Eh I'm vegan now so just fruit.
    Swimming pool? I'm sure it'll be busy
    Fitness center. Leo wants to run in the morning.
    Booked. Could be a good night.
Paper. Pen.
    Right. Writing.
    "I can tell journaling is helpful
    because I'm resistant to doing it."
Text messages.
    Leo thinks they were too mean to me.
    I think I deserve it.
    I love you.
Paper. Pen.
    Hm. I should write some poetry.
Photos.
    Wow look at how my face has changed, let's make a collage.
    Oo what else.
    Body pictures.
    Pre-surgery picture.
    Damm I've really sculpted up.
    Reconsiders feeling gross physically.
    Arguable.
Paper. Pen.
    How easy it is to ignore you.
    How easy it is to ignore myself
    And not listen to my feelings.

I don't share a lot with people. I share a lot with my notebook.

My feelings overflow onto a blank page.

My worst fears tower in the shadow of each letter.

My happiness bounces off every sentence.

And the things I love most stay hidden between the lines.

I'm alone and I'm feeling stuck I feel the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest and  the pressure is unbearable. I'm in a different place but I feel like I see the same faces. I feel like somebody is after me and wants to **** me but I feel like that person lives inside of me. My stomach hurts because the pressure is building so I let out a yell from the very bottom of it. I can feel a hot rush to my eyeballs as my brain decompresses. I can feel the pressure agai Yelling is the only thing that helps. Still, I grab the first thing that I see and I throw it, it just happened to be a backpack through a windshield with a laptop in it. I want to hurt everyone who's ever hurt me and then I realize it was me hurting myself this whole time so I inflict another wound upon myself.



How did I wake up in prison again today when in last nights dream I got so far away. I love running away in my dreams because though I know I should be tired I never run out of breath so I'm able to cover quite a bit of ground when I run away from this place in my dreams. I also like to  breathe underwater. Right before I went to prison I was still flying freely in my dreams I could literally run and jump and fly from place to place but after three years in, I can't seem to get off of the ground. I'm wondering if it's some subconscious thing going on.



The guards yells "stand by for chow!" With elongated syllables and his voice travels down the run with purpose. This old prison has the classic looking Steele prison bars you see in cartoons and movies growing up, it's actually quite eerie. I throw my sheet over my bed and tuck the blanket into the edges so it sits tightly around the mattress and fits snugly in the 6 foot steel soap container type mattress frame that is attached to the wall in a way that you can for this frame up and ******* to make your 6' x 9' space a little bit bigger . I only do this after I put my books in a stack at the end of it because they were spread out with no organization like sub group of war refugees. I turn off the TV, click the desk lamp,  press stop on my tape player, but I let the fan still run. I fold up the drawing I was working on into my dictionary of symbols along with a couple of the poems that were simultaneously being worked on - it's like I have to work on 10 different things at a time to keep my mind occupied. I'm stuck in the cell 23-24 hours a day with ADHD and I was the type of kid to wonder the city for 16 hours on my bike.  I like it because I feel like I'm getting good at 10 different things at once and though I know i it's pretty much impossible to focus on more than one thing at a time I set aside small focuses for each thing in bits and pieces and then go to the next thing, it's quite refreshing to be honest.



I throw some water on my face brush my teeth and I comb my hair back  after I put on a fresh T-shirt, some new pants and my new shoes . Even though I'm wearing all orange I want to look the best I can because it makes me feel good. On the walk to the chow hall we have to go down the stairs and central unit in Florence, Arizona. We all squeeze shoulder to shoulder on the tight run of cells and have to walk Down five flights of stairs and everybody is in a rush but still acting like there just walking casual it's pretty funny to see people do casual speed walks. Everybody's cracking jokes and excited because   Tonight we get pizza and we only get it a couple times every six weeks for they have the menu on a six week schedule. It might taste a little bit cardboardy but who cares it's been years since we've actually had a real slice.  And if you bring some salsa with a little bit of your own cheese you can actually fix the pizza up to where it's quite delectable.  



We pass through the old metal doors and you could fill the air blow from above where the door fan is. As I walk into the chow hall, I can feel tension among the other inmates - it feels like when the lowest frequency on a sound scale with a bass comes in really deep at the bottom of your stomach and a high pitch of the top of your ear that is out of tune and doesn't sit well. You can always tell when something is about to happen because everybody gets quiet and you can feel it in your stomach it's almost like the same feeling of fear and anxiety because the guy who's going to get gotten never knows it's him. I give the guard my last name and I get in line to get my pizza. The food trays come out of the hole in the wall  pretty fast -  inmates that work inside of the kitchen have this down to a science and their muscle memory and pattern recognition is that of an expert sous chef.   Pizza corn jello and a cup for the potent artificially sweetened juice they give us. I'm going to sit down in the middle tables because they have the tables sectioned off for people of different color the white boys sit with them white boys the black people sit with the black people usually closest to the door. The paisas (Mexican national)  sit with each other, the Chiefs have their own tables among  the Mexican Americans. I never sit closest to the wall because if you sit at the back table closest to the wall that means you're striving to have prison political ties and that is something that never interested me because though I am doing five years that is still a temporary stay and I did not want to join a prison gang. But when you're on the higher yards like central unit everybody is pretty much down for the cause so sometimes I will sit back there with homies. Once seated I grab my squeeze cheese from my right pocket, bite a  small piece of the corner off the packet and and squeeze it onto my pizza. I  also apply  some hot sauce and I get o have my friends pizza because he owed me from last nights 49ers game with a bet he lost. This story was probably believable up until the point I said the 49ers won.



while all this is happening in the back of my mind I know something is about to pop off because I could feel it in my stomach. once you know you're good then you're good as far as not being the one about to get stabbed or stomped on but there is always a lingering thought in the back of my head like I hope it's not me that they're about to get. I know it wasn't going to be a prison riot because we all would have known we all would've been prepared with knives ready.



I started eating. Yup cardboardy. Now a little bit faster because my gut told me something was about to pop off and about 3/4 through my second piece of pizza I heard it.



Attacks are usually really quiet in prison usually you hear the stomping of feet, grunting and groaning or slamming against walls so you can feel the wall shake. unless the person that is getting attacked by anywhere from 1 to 4 people starts screaming for his life and begging the guards for help.



This particular attack started with hoofbeats feet on the ground and punches landing and struggling breathing heavy and grunting. You never really want to look directly at what's going down because you don't want to draw attention to the situation or yourself if the guards aren't  paying attention. Attacks like this committed in the middle of a chow hall typically indicate that the person being attacked has to go and is no longer allowed to stay in the general population with us.



I'm Going to say which particular race or who was attacking who because specifics can get a little bit sticky if you are journaling your experience I would hate to offend any particular race or be considered a snitch. three men were stopping another man and it happened really quick. I didn't realize that they had knocked him unconscious and he was breathing really heavy and snoring as if he were dreaming of a beautiful place and had a stuffy nose at the same time.



In what seems like is forever or at least a really long time only just a few seconds have gone by before you hear the guards rushing in. four now eight now twelve guards with fire extinguisher sizes Mace cans, Spraying the men on the face both attackers and victim.



It's crazy because when you're in a room and they use those mace canisters on one person in the whole entire room gets clouded with Mace or Pepper spray  and everybody goes down on the ground and  starts clinching their throats and gasping for breath. some men cannot bear it,  though they typically don't die it seems like they're right on the edge of their last ****** breath.



I just felt bad for the person who didn't get their pizza in time because they're  going to be hungry while we're  all locked down until  the situation re-centers itself. then again the other part of me was a bit jealous because I'm sure the Mace served as a hot sauce and they got to enjoy a little bit of that.  



As I lay dying, I put my face in the ground in my arms and take the smallest breaths possible because it feels like I can survive these breaths and when you breathe deep it stings so bad that you can't help but to gasp for air and cough and perpetuate the struggle.



  I drift off to the beach... Here I am with my feet in the sand at the ocean. I hear seagulls flying above overhead and their calls are panning from left to right like the cleanest headphones you've ever heard. I can hear the waves crashing in and I can feel the sea breeze on my face.  it's one of those days when it's not too hot out but you feel good in the sun with the cool wind on your skin just enough to add A balance. Kind a like a sweet and salty sensation. I love this.



I'm really thankful because last time they maced the whole group it was inside of our living space and we had to sit there for 2 hours and cough but it was only the first 45 minutes or so that felt unbearable. The first time I got maced or actually experienced mace in a really bad way it was when they maced my neighbor inside of the shower because he didn't want to get out of the shower and I thought I could be tough and not feel the effects that much and I was eating crackers while I could smell the mace entering my nostrils. A few seconds later I was on the ground holding my throat because I felt like I was going to die and I couldn't even swallow the crackers I was gasping for air and hating God for this pains existence.



Now again we rise  up on our feet moving back to the run  where our cells are located and I can tell that a lot of the people who have been in prison for a long time who are not in the political movement Are really upset by this because they just want to do the rest of their life inside of these bars at peace.

.Friday the twenty seventh of October at twelve thirty nine PM

-I am getting worse day to day, meaning that I am sad again. Real sad. Try anti-depressants even though they don't work sad. It's funny that I use that word since really it's empty that I feel . . . Or maybe hopeless. Call it whatever you want.
The thing about it though- is that I don't know who to tell. Half of everyone I know can relate which means no one even cares. I'm guilty of the same thing. "Just keep pushing it'll pass." Right? I love my job, my relationship is good, and we're financially stable. Nothing in my life is going wrong so I can't pass the blame onto some little problem. I spent nine hours cleaning my house on Wednesday hoping that I would feel better. I slept all day Thursday hoping that I would feel better. I wrote it down today hoping that I would feel better, but I don't. I don't feel better. Who am I supposed to call about things like this?

Not my sister because she's run out of things to say. There are only so many times you can be sad for no actual reason and expect someone to say something new. I decline therapy. It's expensive and I don't want to talk about a bunch of things that I've already gotten over, and pills? What are pills? I've been down that road and then down even further for . . ? Nothing. For nothing.


So what am I supposed to do when I'm carrying boxes and suddenly want to hurt myself? I've never been a cutter. Never been a burner. I want the weirdest kinds of pain. I want to snap a rubber band on my wrist or bite myself until I bleed. Crazy **** that doesn't make any sense to me. I work out everyday. I drink water. I bathe. I eat.

Honestly I'm really high functioning. I don't really spend a lot of time talking to other humans anymore, but I can chalk that up to losing my super empath powers I guess. I call it independence but it could just be exaustion. I'm so tired of self diagnosing. I can tell you what's wrong with someone else in thirty seconds flat yet somehow my own sadness continuously baffles me.

I guess it doesn't really matter. I'm not going to **** myself or do something crazy. I used to cheat on my boyfriend or let someone hit me during ***, but I've grown out of that kind of stupid behavior. For awhile I was writing essays about how to get through what I'm going through which were awesome for a lot of people but don't help me at all

Maybe I'm doomed to save everyone in the world other than myself. That would make sense since there's nothing I can do about my condition. If that's what I want to call it. So I guess maybe I'm just having a bad time.
I'm sure it will pass soon.

Will I remember that
on this day,
or that other day,
I awoke besieged
and under attack?

Does it count, all the ugly,
growling, snarling demons
licking at my gloriously unpainted toes,
if I never write them down?

Does it mean
they weren’t even ever there?
Something like imprints
on the paper from
the pen with no ink?

I see, it’s quite simply
rather easy to take
Mother’s new, colorful pens
and draw some scene
of greater freedom
than the former, greyer
stories wanted to unfold.

And the sorry tinge of regret
that appears to want to hold on
is really only misplaced
and mistrust of my own love.

Look at that!
It floats on by.
See that cloudy scene
just passing
along the screen.
Why write down only such a minor,
miscreant, unsorted kind of thing?

I try to take down my day
In a journal.
I used to use a
Purple book,
But that ran out of pages
So now I use my goldfish one.
It has a hard cover
Cerulean blue sea of fabric backing
And a goldfish
Embroidered on the front.
It has a drawing of a
Statue of Caligula
And an illustration of
A Terra Cotta Warrior.
But it has so much more.
If you flip to the end
turn a few pages
you’ll get to the start of
my second journal.
It’s written in black ink
Messy handwriting
And crunched form.
But it’s my own
And I treasure it beyond all others

I didn't realize I had stopped taking pictures of myself
         Maybe because he already knew what I looked like
         Maybe because I had forgotten
I didn't realize I had stopped listening to music
        Maybe because I had found all the songs about him
        Maybe because I had nothing to sing about
I didn't realize I had stopped imaging my future
        Maybe because it was already set in stone
        Maybe because it was not mine
I didn't realize I had stopped writing poetry
        Maybe because one can only write so many love poems
        Maybe because I no longer liked to think about my feelings
I didn't realize I had stopped journaling
        Maybe because he was there to share and remember with
        Maybe because I wasn't doing anything worth writing down
I didn't realize I had stopped working out
        Maybe because he loved me no matter how I looked
        Maybe because I had lost the motivation
I didn't realize I had stopped reading
        Maybe because I didn't need to escape anymore
        Maybe because I never had a moment to myself
I didn't realize I had stopped sleeping in my own bed
        Maybe because I was sleeping with someone I loved
        Maybe because I couldn't stand sleeping alone

I didn't realize I had lost myself
       Maybe because I was too busy taking care of us
       Maybe because I had stopped.

Sometimes I can't tell if I'm writing poetry
Or just journaling.
Is it the spacing that allows me to call it a poem?
Because I have no stanzas.
I have no "Dear diary" either.
So which is it?
I hope it's poetry. I hope it's art.
When it just falls out of my head like this
No otherworldly narrator
No rhyme
No beauty
I doubt it
And through my doubting, I make it doubt itself.

If anyone should have high self-esteem, it is you, dear words.

Don't know whether you are up or down, life is spinning you round and round.
Nothing makes any sense and you begin to feel quite tense.
When you feel life has dealt you a ***** hand look to your journal and start to plan.
You  need a plan to turn around and help your feet back to the ground.
Don't wait too long for you will see when you begin to plan you begin to BE.
So grab that journal, start to write, let all your thoughts roam free.
Let  your dreams and desires run over the page and you will start to see; a plan emerge, a plan to set you free.
A plan of hope, emerging from the page, a plan to take you forward into a different age.
A plan of joy as you evolve into the person you always wanted to be.
A plan that changes and evolves with your thoughts and ideas.
Planning costs you nothing, planning is for free.
Use your journal wisely my friend and live life happily.

Happy journaling.

In my mind
you tell me you wish I would tell you
how I feel about you more
instead of hiding it away in poems
that I don’t always show you
But that’s a level of vulnerability I’m not willing to give
It wouldn’t help
I protest
unless you’re as confused as I am
you probably are in a way
let’s be honest
I’m only thinking about this because you seemed disappointed
It probably wasn’t over something I could have prevented or helped with
But I think you wanted certain words
and you didn’t receive them
Maybe you were just sad
sad to be leaving

Zquil
Tumblr
Reading
Pacing
Eating
Crying
Chores
Journaling
Prayi­ng
Talking to myself
Ripping up old letters, photos
Drawing on myself

All of the above ensure I hit my bed exhausted, exhausted enough to fall asleep instantly so I don't have to lay here and wonder how we became strangers and how it's almost stranger that neither of us care to share that it's sad so we let it be, let it rest until none of that puts me to sleep and I sit here and drown in my thoughts, suffocated by the fact that it's all ******* over and the photos are mere memories and there won't be more photos, there won't be more memories to create because you are so far gone.

All of the above ensure I hit my bed, exhausted enough to fall asleep instantly so I don't have to feel and acknowledge that losing people is piercing my heart. Being numb and indifferent is so much easier when you're too tired to acknowledge how you really feel.

I keep busy during the day, tire myself out, and hope to God I'm so exhausted that I sleep for hours until I do it all over again. There's a solid 8 hours I don't have to acknowledge any of this is real and the sooner I'm there, the more numb I feel and at this rate I don't want to feel this at all.

STOP THESE FEELINGS

Feeling trapped with no where to go
I wish I had feelings of happiness to show
Depressed, anxious and raging, too
Some may ask, “what else is new?”

They say time heals all wounds
A cliché like “the man in the moon”
I may try to let it all go
But it still feels as badly as stubbing my big toe

Work through your problems they say
I have been trying that every **** day
Stay positive and keep going straight
As if that can stop it at a faster rate

Journaling, poetry and prayer help on the days
In which I feel the likes of rot and decay
Escaping this world seems the only way out
For some people it always seems the quickest route

I dream of finally finding everlasting peace
But the suicidal thoughts need to cease
I have to remember God has a plan
I’ve got to stay here just as long as I can

Taking walks. Daydreaming. Stickers. School Spirit. My friends. Living in a small town. Japan. Singing. Painting my toenails. Pranks/ practical jokes. Painting. Stretch canvas. Costumes. Dipping my fingers in melted wax. Style. Soda. Spending an hour typing at a coffee shop. Musicals. Back to school season. Mopeds. Good hair days. Naps. Not walking up but looking at a beautiful staircase. being alone. My ankles. Playlists. Spending entire days in pajamas. Holidays. Telling stories. Spontaneity. Theme parks. Bookshelves. The word copacetic. Boxes. Empty journals. Surprises. Doing things in groups. Doing things alone. Getting real mail. Decorating. Small forks. A good hug. Gift cards. New Years Goals. Going out to dinner. When someone else remembers some great story about me/us that I’ve forgotten. Toy stores. Fireplaces. Breakfast foods. Journaling. Crying for a good reason. Doorbells. Pointless adventures. My birthday. Reasons to make wishes

Sitting in the courtyard on a hot summer night,
Enjoying the breeze that caresses us both,
Sitting with a friend, the closest of close,
Is there something more in your eyes?

Sitting at Sonic,
Talking about feelings,
Divulging secret longings,
Finally admitting things we have hidden for so long,
An amazing first kiss.

Going to poker night at your friend’s house,
Finally being able to express our feelings openly,
You hold my hand,
They call me your girl, my heart explodes like a 4th of July fireworks finale!
You are an attentive wonderful boyfriend,
Even if just here in this safe place.

Driving around town,
Laughing, being, doing things together,
Seeing this town that I have lived in for many years in a new way,
Seeing everything, everywhere with you in a new way.

Walking through neighborhoods,
Taking in the architecture,
Sitting in the park,
Silent, but sharing so much,
Being told that we look like spring love.

Dining together, and journaling our meals together,
A long list of places yet to go together,
Looking for even more new places to explore together,
New experiences with you have always been magical.

Hiking in the mountains,
Standing in a meadow,
Looking out over the city that we share,
But that is keeping us away from each other,
So free here and now,
You stand behind me,
Your arms around me,
I lean back into you,
Praying that I could just melt into you.

Alone in your room,
Sharing all,
Sharing our most,
Exploring each other,
Melting into each other,
Nothing else in the world but you and me and these moment of bliss.

A birthday lunch,
A beautiful ring,
A promised future, now lost…
A beautiful day nonetheless,
A wonderful ever lasting memory,
No one can ever take it away from me.

Back to the courtyard,
4 Years later,
Cool breeze,
Secrets stifled,
Glances stolen at each other,
You love me and I Iove you,
But we have moved passed that now, we are friends.
Have you really moved passed it?

I don’t think that I successfully have.
I know that I do not want to.


© Misty Bishop-Martiss

To preface all of this, I have had a difficult time with this assignment. I do not know what I want to do in the future or where and my everyday is just following the stepping stones laid out before me. Most of my mental energy goes towards being semiproductive most days and attempting to ignore my problems.  I deal with an unknown chronic pain, I have had more tests than I can count and a procedure or two to try and find it's cause. The pain is so bad that whenever it flairs up I can barely breathe, my vision goes dark, and I can only wait for it to fade back to a manageable level.  It has caused a lot of difficulty and has contributed to the shambles that is my mental health.  

I am not happy. Nor do I remember the last time I have ever been happy, happy without the catalyst of an event. I have to rely on synthetic emotions made in a lab to get up every day because somewhere along the lines of me developing into who I am, there was a coding error. The machine did not run anymore, and all hell broke loose. The radio waves fried, the flood gates opened, and all communication ceased. All that remained was static. Static and silence. But still, I continued, out of obligation. Even now, with some sense of self and a balanced chemical cocktail, I only do what is expected of me, of a person who exists, and a concept in others' minds out of obligation, to meet expectations of the others and the self.

When I went through an in-patient program, I only did the personal journaling, a required part of the healing process, so I could be cleared to go home. By not completing the required writings, I would prolong my stay. That would keep me from going back home and not returning to the everyday tedium that was expected of me. I did finish the journal, and I did go home, but I cannot say I truthfully took anything from the experience that's weight was not surpassed by the time I missed.

At times, I feel like Sisyphus. I roll my boulder up the mountain made up of the perceived expectations my feeble sense of self clings to. Never able to crest the summit and view what waits beyond.  What would I do when I no longer had to face that treacherous climb against the weight of my own mind? I don't know. So I continue. Each day, the same motions, the same empty goals.

One day, maybe, the cycle with stop and I will no longer need to wrestle with the swirling, empty abyss of the opinions I have collected, the assumptions I assumed to have been made, the notions that everyone outside of me sees what I am and they hold opinions and expectations that if I fail to meet any of them, even by the slightest, people will see me for what I am and shudder and shun me away. Then perhaps I can dream. I can look towards opportunities and no fear the obligations and expectations that come with each step, each stone overturned.

this isnt poetry
scribbling my thoughts on paper
in verse form
this isnt poetry
reaching deep into my soul
and pulling out my feelings
this is more like
journaling
or maybe even
therapy
because for some reason
this writing
this "poetry"
feels theraputic
it leaves you alive
so i guess
that means
that maybe, possibly
this just might
be poetry

It’s not something that I need
Just something that I know
When did I become so comfortable
With being miserable?

I know how this goes,
It works until it stops working.
And this time I had a pretty good run.
But no matter what I do,
It never feels like enough.

I know where I am,
I’ve been here before.
I didn’t think I would again
But this is the result of letting things get of out hand

It gets the better of me
And it’s so easy
To slip, and activate this cycle
While it’s so difficult,
To do what is best:
Follow the steps.

I don’t want to continue meeting dead ends.
Having to always begin again.

And again, and again, and again.


The best medicine is something I’ve already done.
At this time, it’s not an available option.

Though it would probably be the best
Rather than this mess:
A homemade version of recovery I’ve created.
The bootleg copy
Not even left over’s, just crumbs.
Something equivalent to a Band Aid applied on a broken bone.

Tonight I chose healthy coping.
Process everything through journaling.
Funny how
How pain brings out
The best insight;
Sometimes the best of what I write.

Tension within my chest
like wearing a too-tight t-shirt
as my heart fights to escape

My body yearns to run
like a startled hare
to fly like a hummingbird
to fight like a hyena
to do anything to relax

My worries fly in my head
like hornets aiming for
my weakness and
my insecurities

Breathing tightens my chest more
trapping me in ****** quicksand

Journaling makes me more aware
of my heartbeat thumping
like a Shakespearean actor spouting
iambic pentameter in my core

I know all of this will fade
like the end of a scene in a play
but I can hardly wait, tears
standing at the ledge of my eyes
waiting to jump off the cliff

Nothing is really forever broken
Everything can be fixed
Tape, Glue, and staples
were invented for a reason
they fix certain things
Communication, journaling, and therapy
are to fix the other things
I am fixable
you are fixable
it may take some time
but it can be
fixed

it is again time
to start anew
whether that means
strict journaling
or silly diets
it's new.

and the one thing i need to cleanse
is making my start
stained

memories of you
of him
of her
can i let them go yet?
maybe not
or else
it will have been as if nothing
ever happened.

as if what happened
wasn't significant
and trivial.

and so i clutch on
into the new year
in fear that my story has gone
unrecognized
and praying that my pain may be erased
but not yet.

or that someone else
will make my fists drop them
one
by
one.
and then maybe then
can i forget them all.

journaling of emotions?
    expressions of the heart?
        externalizing of thougts
            cathartic musing
                a rorschach test
                    therapy?
                        art?

His touch clings to me
like spider webs
a tickling irritation.

When I’m stressed -
I wake up -
Fighting him off.
My body remembering his careful violence.

My mind branding over new lovers
with his fingerprints.

Want to mutilate my brain
shed this skin who recalls him
so easily.

No unconscious memories
of other touches
from anyone but him.

I will never forgive or forget.
Condition away this conditioned response.

When will I be free?
Of a man who doesn’t remember me.
--
I see his features in other men.
That gorgeous corn silk blond hair,
the strong, masculine jaw
even the cuteness of his ears.

Somehow that tugs at my heartstrings
The twinging pain disgusts  me.
How can I still feel this way?

I want to puke up this venom.
The vitriol burning my mouth.
Exorcise the malicious spirit
that wails in my ear
when I see

YOU.

Or someone who almost looks like you.

My teeth sunk deep in anger.
You foolish, reckless girl - how could you let this happen?
How could you let him do this to you?

How can I forgive myself?
I don’t know how to.
My forgiveness will never be hinged to him.
He will never earn it.

I want to forgive myself.
My naivety, my hope, my lust.
I went in search of affection and base needs of physical touch
Repulsed by his violating me.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone
let me go, let me go, let me go.

I’m sorry to me for what I didn’t know would happen.
I’m sorry to me that I still blame myself for my violation.
I’m sorry to me how this trauma has burned me so deeply.
How I wish the salve of time and journaling would heal me completely.

I’m sorry to me that I still can’t quite let go.
How he still follows me around - at least metaphorically.
I want my forgiveness.

I am fortunate to have been given a second chance at life. After experiencing the same persistent headache every night for five consecutive days, I recognized that something was not right. Upon arriving at the hospital, the staff noticed a concerning spike in my blood pressure, prompting a CT scan of my brain.

The results revealed the presence of two aneurysms, and the medical team needed to determine whether they were ruptured or hemorrhaged. After three painful attempts at a spinal tap, I insisted that the surgeon take over. Unfortunately, the procedure confirmed my worst fears; there was blood in the cerebrospinal fluid, indicating a hemorrhage. Faced with the grim reality of being given only a one-in-three chance of survival, I was urged to contact my family. In that moment, my thoughts were consumed by my daughter, brother, and sister; my entire world.

I awoke two days post-surgery and spent the next fourteen days recovering in the hospital. This harrowing experience profoundly altered my perspective, illuminating the areas of my life that I had neglected; my mental, physical, and spiritual health. I was forced to confront a haunting possibility: a future where my daughter would grow up without me by her side. The weight of that realization was overwhelming.

I am grateful to be here today, having narrowly escaped what felt like my expiration date last April. My daughter and I cherish every moment together, and I approach life with renewed purpose. Since my recovery, I have navigated the complexities of life, experiencing love, heartbreak, and the joys of watching my daughter thrive in fourth grade. I have been rediscovering the beauty of my city and striving to prioritize my well-being through healthier choices that benefit my mind, body, and soul.

Yet, I live with the awareness that I am on borrowed time; a gift not everyone receives. Each day feels like an undeserved grace, a reminder that life is fleeting and precious, and I will never take a moment for granted. This journey has pushed me to not just survive, but to thrive with intention. I am proud of the inner work I have embraced: mindfulness, meditation, journaling, and writing poetry, each practice helping me deepen my understanding of self and guiding me toward emotional clarity. I’ve rekindled my love for reading, finding solace and inspiration in the written word once more. And physically, I’ve committed myself to healthier living; nourishing my body through balanced nutrition and daily exercise.

This dedication to my mental and physical health has been transformative. It is a testament to my resilience and to the hard-fought battles I wage daily to become the best version of myself. I am proud of the progress I have made, and I honor this borrowed time by continuing to grow, knowing that every breath, every step forward, is a victory.

—

I walk among the living, yet I feel
the dark of those who left, who lean in close,
their soft whispers like petals falling.
The day of death; today, I feel them near,
those gone and yet alive in every breath I take.

They know I stood close, brushed the calm brink,
my life offered, a fragile cord severed,
but then, stitched back with thread of borrowed breath.
They gave me seconds spun from their own stillness,
a kindness of the dead to the dying.

In their silence, I hear a call to love and live,
Not with the fury of a man cheated from death,
but with the gentleness of one held tenderly
by unseen faces, those who walk the other side,
yet send their light across to warm my face.

I am a guest here, held by the mercy of the lost,
a witness who owes his heartbeat to their generosity.
For every hour given, I bow to them, thankful.
In each sunrise, I see them wink from the shadows,
their gift of borrowed time; a vow I carry forward.

— Sincerely, Boris

How do I put away words when they can spread maturity?
How can I exercise deeds when wisdom doesn't call for them?
How can thoughts ever have effect if they are not cognised into words or deeds?
How can objects of the macro level ever be justified if they are not used at the macro level?
How can minutia ever be justified if they are not employed in technology?
A quantum computer on every phone or in every home by the time I die!
How can prayer ever be worthwhile it doesn't inspire these things?
Who will be an exponent of knowledge in a field of ignorance where each person must criticize another knowledge to build up there's?
The school of life is full of naysayers.
It is also full of special interests who wish to keep me questioning the dignity of dignified politics.

The world needs unity, our President has propounded.
Yet who am I to set forth ideas for laws?
I am a vessel for love, for idealism.
How do I spread idealism, when my deeds say "moderation"?
Smoking cigarettes, non-alcoholic beer, **** art, *******, and God forbid: coffee!
On the other side: vitamins, vegetarianism, exercise, meditation, martial arts, math, and science.
For some reason I have a picture that idealism equals fundamentalism.
When in reality idealism is love and unity.

When spoken of as love for God shared with others, love can be a foreign word.
If God can never, ever be fully seen or known, wouldn't the only love of God be love of humanity?
Also, when knowledge is the main focus of life, love loses meaning and love is love of knowledge, while any other love than this is petty.
There is also love of excellence.

From a child it was the admiration of a kind one, an athlete, a musician, and artist.
It soon turned into a love of companionship, both friendship and romantic.
Yet due to my diverse nature, I found no one to share a moderate life with.
So I turned to companionship centered on alcohol and drugs.
Then I finally realised it was really just love of drugs that kept us together, and that without them I was as nothing to them.
So friendship ext became a sort of intuition.
The institution of religion.
Where even the proximity of a religious person was as dear friendship to me.
And any differences between us were joys of freedom of belief.

Next, without school or work I was as an outcast, because religious friends are interested in my work for humanity or too often an outer institution of knowledge.
With no compass for even writing down my thoughts to give me confidence, I did the only thing I could: I copied an Isaac Asimov introductory physics book word for word.
Physics my senior year created such a love for physics that my only dear expression was in copying that book.

Then, one night I realised I could copy Holy Scripture to strengthen my virtue.
And with one copy of a verse, my world came caving in.
My newfound spiritual power found the only avenue for my ignorance in violence toward my father.
I was hospitalized for mental health at 19.
First I argued with the staff thinking I didn't need medication.
Then I realised that cooperation was the only road out of the hospital.
I became docile and sedate.
My first day out my father recommended that I start his style of meditation.
Previously I had wanted to do my own style of meditation, but when I shared my insights with him, I was met with: "That's not what so and so teaches".

Now I found myself docile enough to begin his meditation.
After three months I felt focused and one-pointed.
After 18 months I had my first enlightenment experience.
Then, after I continued, The meditation started to make my strong and capable virtues waste away.
I was, unknown or rather known to me, a prisoner of my meditation.
My fields of study changed form music to philosophy and religion.
I moved away from home.
I worked unrelated jobs.
Then, due to my interest in spirituality, I entered an unaccredited spiritual school.

They challenged me to practice different techniques of inspiration, meditation, concentration, journaling, and diet.
I felt it was time to change my meditation practice which I by then had fully assimilated form my father.
But now I differentiated form him.
I used my own eyes like they had never been used before.
I finished a higher college degree.
I got married.
Then I was tested harder than I ever had been, and still never was.
I battled for normalcy by going off my medication ending up estranged in jail, only to come out with a wife who filed for divorce.
With her unforgiving and weak heart, never wanting to see a husband go through such tests again, the marriage ended.

I at once felt cut off from the world and became depressed.
Now on two meds I once again managed my life on my own.
I worked while going back to school to study electronics.
Afterwards, my interest in physics grew and grew.
I devoured all I could in my free time away from my job.
Then work was taking me too far away from my studies, so weirdly enough I had a back/hernia problem at work, which caused me to quit.
That same week my roommate, a best friend, had moved out of state, my cat who was catching mice for another fiend wasn't allowed back into my apartment by management, and my grandad had died not too long before.
I was weak, exhausted, felt displaced, and companionless.
I immediately took a 90-mile Uber trip to my dad's.

He let me study without a job for three months until I felt my life wasn't progressing without a job.
Two jobs later I find myself as a dishwasher/deliver/food prep worker at an upscale restaurant.
With blue collar humor mixed with female energy, it is quite exciting on busy nights.

Almost 21 years since I finished my first physics class, with an electronics degree, and over six years of self-study, I have little to show the world of my love for this knowledge of math and physics.
With Grassmannian geometry, momentum event horizons, and galaxies moving in all directions at all accelerations, with the inconceivability of witnessing a graviton, and the cover up of the US government reverse engineering extra-terrestrial technology.
With local laws helping free us from the grid being squashed by state governments, and thousands of secret patents, and inventors killed.
I can hardly make any ethical movement in technology and science without first coming to terms with the Native American, Black, and Hispanic brothers ans sister being systematically devalued, while women don't have equal pay with men.
So my mind wishes to grapple with science while in reality that path can hardly be entertained, or entertained only as an outlet for curiosity.

Meanwhile, seeing with my own spiritual eyes, my meditations have developed into a kind of zen, although I have no formal teaching in it.