Fucking rain.

I don't come here nearly as much as I once hoped I would.

There was a time where I truly believed if I devised an oasis for myself where I might be inspired to spawn work, I would feel a sense of obligation to my yearning creative and visit this space frequently. I hoped I might be more compelled to write. 

Unfortunately, I have found that, somewhere along the way here, I have lost hope in this medium's ability to bring about clarity and reinforcement.

But the rain woke me up this morning and I was reminded how something so soft but powerful can create a ripple when persistent enough. I always have my favorite thoughts in the morning. 

With the rain came a sense of anxiety. By some odd circumstance, the rain itself seemed to actually be comforting. The sound of silence and darkness, mixed with the slight presence of the Christmas lights combined with the pouring rain made me feel safe. I myself have never loved the stuff, but as I awoke this morning I felt a sense of gratefulness for the inclement weather. Why anxiety?

As I'm nearing the end of an educational venture, I have began to realize the seriousness of choices. Until now, choices have been fairly easy to make. Being an adolescent comes with that perk.  There is little consequence to most any (appropriate and legal...) choice as a young adult because most of the situations we find ourselves poised in are often far more reversible or salvageable in the case of failure or catastrophe. For example, I went through a pretty tumultuous time choosing a path of higher education. My vision was sunshine since I was a competitive runner with intentions of being a competitor for the school I attended. After many conversations with some schools down south, my future veered toward Oregon where, evidentially, the sun can be sparse and I was a little disappointed. But this choice wound up working out, because I had parents who supported me and friends who loved me and I had a sense of assurance knowing if I hated it here, I could have the means to transfer if I 

A) ran better 

B) got a job and saved my money

C) was only switching schools in the same state

My choice had little consequence because in the grand scheme of things, the choices I am making now are not going to be permanent nor will they affect my ultimate goals for real life. (Yes I'm sorry if you're hearing this for the first time, but college isn't real life.)  But now, as I'm beginning to contemplate where I go after school, what I choose to do with my degree, where I start getting jobs, how I brand myself etc. I'm beginning to understand these are the choices that are not as easy nor obvious or reversible as I once thought they might be. 

As I lay here listening to the rain, I realize I have never had a choice to be anywhere else. My financials suited Oregon best, as well as my athletic work ethic. I have been raised in this rainy state and I have found myself endeared with even the peskiest of perks here. Now suddenly, I'm being posed with a choice to get out, and I'm beginning to wonder if the decision really is just black and white. I've always wanted sun, but after finding comfort in the rain this morning, I'm beginning to seriously consider if I'm ready to depart from this type of comfort in full? Or perhaps, I want to romp around a few other places before I just concretely make a choice to plant my ass in the first place I've always wanted to go. Perhaps there are comforts I have never considered in PLACES I haven't considered and I might deprive myself of discovering this simply because I feel there is only once decision on the table.  This is the thought that strikes anxiety. I am finally in charge of where I go and how I choose to shape myself in that place, and for the first time I earnestly believe that this choice is not only more difficult, but far more serious than it has ever appeared before. I will never be able to get these early exploratory years back and I'm not quite sure I'm ready to make permanent choices so quickly. I'm certainly not ready to give up what else is out there in the time that things can still be reversed, or salvaged. I suppose only time will tell how I handle this or what happens, but for now, I feel a whole lot better. 

Fucking rain. 

Its a mess.

Its a mess.

I try to stand back and corrall it together but frankly, its a mess.

Convolution has comendered my head and I am at the mercy of its mania.  I can't recognize my own thoughts, much less identify with them.  My only warriors to fight off such enemies were Empathy and Humanity but with the relentless bitter destruction, Humanity weakened and vacated.  I now stand alone with a far too heroic Empathy, and find myself overwhelmed and cold.  I have never been at such odds with myself, and fear the worse side of me will prevail.  With my grasp loosening on the good side of me, I sit alone and try to compartmentalize.  I always believed breaking something down logically would be the only way to gain an upperhand against messes such as these.  But, my efforts are futile and I stand alone.  There is no logical explanation for this mess.  It was born from characteristics that are unfamiliar to me, but have aggressively made themselves at home.  Their sheer presense is clouding out the way I used to think, believe, reason.  It hardly seems fair, given they were not invited nor heeded a warning.  

Its a mess.  Wars ensued.  My mind is in constant confliction between what I would have done, and what is being done with my Humanity gone.  Nothing spawns more anxiety than losing touch of who you are, or the version of yourself that you liked.  But when you begin to succumb to toxic forces that your own warriors don't stand a chance against, how do you win?  How do you overcome a trial like that?  Do you?  Can you?  What happens when the the person you used to know becomes so disappointed, they can't bear to look at you anymore?  What will you be left with?   

Its a mess.  Its a fucking mess.

 

Segway

There was no comfortable way to start this conversation.  I have instigated this talk hundreds of times, yet it never seems to get any easier.  She’d been standing there for about thirty minutes so far.  It usually takes a few hours to digest, but for others, it can take days.  But not this one.  She was already looking around, trying to figure out how this all happened.  I could tell she had questions, and I was here, ready to answer them. 

I made my way towards the girl, who couldn’t have been older than 17.  She looked from the grave marker to me, then fixed her eyes back on the stone.  I put my hands in my pockets as I stood next to her.  

“Do you know where you are?” I asked.

She crossed her arms and looked over to me.  Her eyes were piercing, and her voice was sharp.

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out,” she snapped.

“Listen here,” I began “I know you’re angry and confused. I don’t need you to like me, but I need you to be civil if we are going to get you out of here.”

            Like a dam breaking, her sorrow broke through her façade and she collapsed.  Her shoulders slumped like someone had just sat on them, and her face turned the color of ice.  I slowly moved down to her level, and hesitantly moved my hand to her back.  Administering tough love was not unusual in this line of work.

            “Why are you here?” she sobbed desperately.

            “I am here to help with the…process.  I help put you on the “see the light” express and get you the hell out of here.  That’s pretty much my job description in full, kid.  I hate to ask, but you know that you’re… well, you know that you…”

            “Yes.  I know.  Must we really discuss it so bluntly?”

            “No.  As long as you know. But you should know, it was a car accident.  Drunk driver.  It isn’t right, but it is reality. Now I’m going to be square with you because I can tell you’ve got a fighting spirit and tough skin.  You’re in Segway. It’s a transition point before you “move on.”  The quicker you can accept and reconcile, the quicker you can get out of this cold, god forsaken corpse farm and get on to brighter, happier and warmer eternities.  Do you get it?  Now, what can I do to help you?”

            I could see panic take over her face.  She spoke aggressively at me.

            “Well why haven’t you moved on?  Why are you stuck here?  It doesn’t make sense that everyone else is getting out of here while you’re stuck here just pointing in the right direction.”

I bowed my head.  These were not the kind of questions I was accustomed to answering.  But it was my job to take care of business, so I did what I had to in order to calm them down, and move them on. 

“Well, I’ve been here for 72 years as of last month.  I was in the mob when I… was in the flesh.  Believe it or not, I was a real bulldozer of sorts.  I never let anything or anyone get in the way of my job if it meant a big payday.  The guy who did this job before me said it was a bank robbery, which didn’t really surprise me.  It took a 3 million dollar job, a standoff with the cops and one fatal gunshot.  I ended up working Segway because sure, I did some bad things, but th- the Big Man said he saw potential in me.  I wasn’t the typical candidate for “the great beyond” but I’m a good business man.  By that, I mean I take care of business, and don’t ask questions.  So when the Big Man suggested I take this job, I did just that.”

Her face got red and began screaming at me, fervently waving her arms, no calmer after I responded.

“So what’s in it for you then?  You don’t get money or jewels or whatever dazzling compensation it is you got before… this.  So tell me the real reason tough guy, why is the Big Man having you do his dirty work for him and you’re so damn cool with being pushed around?”

I stopped for a moment, and pondered this.  I had never really considered this before. 

“I guess it’s because I’m filling a void I didn’t know I had in my flesh life.  This kind of work gives me an emotional compensation, rather than a monetary compensation you know?  It seemed like a good way to find forgiveness, and maybe get a second chance.”

            She dropped her arms to her side, and smiled at me.  Lightning began to crack and the clouds began to open up.  I jumped to my feet at looked to the girl.  I felt that familiar rush of pride and excitement, like she was my kid taking her first steps.  She was ready to be sent on.

“You ready to go?” I asked kindly. “It looks like it’s your time.”

“No actually, I’m not quite. And it isn’t.  It’s yours, and it’s a long time coming.”

This had to be a joke.  I wasn’t destined to go on.  I became immediately annoyed that she would waste time like this.  Her window to go on would be closing if she didn’t go now.

“What on earth are you talking about?” I barked.

“I want a taste of that do good business you were talking about.  I wasn’t exactly grateful in my… flesh life either, so I made the same deal with the Big Man you did and on one condition.  If I could help you on without you knowing it, I could stay.  And it looks like I did.”  She beamed at her accomplishment, and began to push me towards the light.

I looked to the sky as it opened up, and for the first time, it was me that felt the warmth of the light on my face.  I looked to the girl in shock.  “I-I don’t understand,” I stuttered.

She just smiled and shook her head as I dissipated into the glow. 

 

SS III
.K SG C.

The Day Job.

It was gloomy here this morning.  Then again, it was always gloomy here.  I had no coworkers, but was completely surrounded by people.  I made my way to the top of the hill where the crumbling statue of St. Christopher watched over those who resided here.  It was Wednesday, which meant the south route.  Every Wednesday meant the south route since I had started here.  South Route meant walking up towards the willow where Mr. Peterson was, looping all the way down around Ernest Baker, then across and all along the south side where the troops were.  

"Good morning, Gladys," I said to my left as I did every Wednesday morning.  My job was to pick up the decaying material people left.  No momentos, said the boss.  Only stuff that'll make the place stink.  So old beer cans people left cracked, the decaying flowers that began to smell of wet animal, and other miscellanious perishable items people would leave for their mothers, grandfathers, great uncles and so on.  But I looked up towards the south route bend, and saw something intriguing,  Something that didn't accomidate the usual Wednesday.  A girl.  About 7 years old. No taller than the average gravestone around here.  I looked around.  Aren't kids that age freaked out by places like these?  I scanned the south grounds, and saw no parents.  Surely, if she saw me, she would be afraid of me.  I was the kind of person urban legends were spawned in spite of.  An old man grooming a graveyard seemed enough reason to stay away on a morning like this.  But she just stood there. Staring at the stone in front of her, seeming to be completely unaware of my presense.  I started to make my way to her, but as I got closer, I began to become familiar with this girl.  The hair, the eyes, the blue dress.  I dropped my bag, and dropped to my knees.  I buried my face in my hands.  I looked up from my palms, and she was gone.  I desperately searched around, turning on my aged joints in all directions, suddenly on my feet.  Surely I'd seen her.  It had been years, but that doesn't always mean they wont come back.  I wove around Helen James, straight past Buck Perkins and found my way back to my starting point.  I sighed, and dropped my head.  It's not everyday the dead hang out here, but they make good company when they do.  It was gloomy in the graveyard, and I realized just then how alone I was. I picked up the wilted flowers on Gladys's grave, so that they might be replaced on Friday when her grandaughter came to visit.  I looked towards the spot the girl stood at. I guess, it's just nice to know I'm not the only one who comes back.

20 Minute Write

Short Story II

.K SG C.

What We Take With Us

I wonder if she knows she had mountains behind her. 

She’s always had mountains behind her. 

But you wouldn’t know it looking at her. Not at first at least. She maneuvered through life as though she were walking up mountains instead- bracing the wind or trudging through snow.  I’m certain she can’t help it, you know?  It’s just the best she’s ever been able to do.

She’s always had to really muster up the strength to do most anything. By the time she finished one thing, she’d be too tired for whatever came next.  I noticed this when we were young.  Shifting positions, talking, and writing. It all took such effort. Walking quite literally took the air out of her.  When she would arrive at her destination, she would slump into her chair or against the wall and close her eyes.  She would breathe in and breathe out, slowly and rhythmically.  Watching her made me ache.  Her frailness, a thin stature that seemed incapable of withholding everything she had been through. It always seemed like too much for her. I remember thinking this the first time I saw her. I remember that day like it was just yesterday. We were 6. She had to bend down to hoist up her socks.  They were striped every color of the rainbow.  Socks are sold one size fits all, but she was far from all. I would often wade behind her, waiting for her to finish adjusting them.  She always seemed to stay on the ground for just a little too long, staring at her feet, as if waiting for the socks to gain enough strength to stay up on their own.  I think I fell in love with her then. Her struggle.  I fell in love with all the catches.  I worried one day she would make her way down to fix them and in her final letdown, find herself unable to get back up.  Even at our young age, I had acquired this inherent need to be there to pick her up, just in case one day she found she was unable to rise from the ground.  I felt it my duty, really. I loved her and her socks.  She always found her way back upright though, then gradually rolled on like fog, dissipating into whatever was next. Just looking at her, you could tell she had known the weight of the world before she was even born into it. 

But my god, she was beautiful.  She had bones of glass, and air draped around her.  She was thin, blessed with ridges and valleys in her hips, back and thighs, where bone married her flesh. Her skin was reminiscent of opal, flecks of aquamarine in the midst of the purples, and yellows underneath her alabaster skin. She was a tortured vortex, trapped in a watercolor painting. She didn’t smile much.  She maintained a passive expression on her face, but to the knowing eye, nothing passed through her mind without excruciating attention. She wore her hair in braids.  She’d fashioned them that way since we were young. They cascaded over her shoulder blades, winding through all the indents and alongside all the shadows of her chest.  Her hair was long, and her mother was never there, so naturally like the survivor she was, she learned to braid.  It kept her hair out of her narrowed green eyes, and allowed them to stay fixed on what was in front of her.  I think that’s why she still wears them like that over ten years later.  She is 16 now, braids to her side, still looking forward.

She has the mountains behind her.  She may proceed uncertainly at times, but they stand unwaveringly, ready to support her.  It’s late, and all these things run through my head as I look to her now. She’s catching the red-eye bus to San Francisco where she might be able to disappear.  She had told me stories of people that had gone there to start over, and it was the only idea that really propelled her forward anymore.  She’s looking around, and I keep my hat down.  I told her I’d let her leave with neither protest nor struggle.  I know she loved me, but she needed to find love for herself.  I wanted that more for her than I wanted her for myself. She needed to fulfill her dreams of anonymity so that she may reclaim a purpose.  She told me that in her room once, last year.  It was rainy out.  I traced my fingers down the peaks of her spine, and all along her bare back while she lay motionless on my chest.  I lost my purpose, she said.  I have become a product of the consequences from merely being born, and I need to reclaim my choice in life.  I had never been much of talker, so I simply said okay or something of that nature.  She needed this, and I loved her.  So we didn’t talk much after that, and now she’s here.  And I’m here, standing in the shadows as I have always done, watching, making sure she doesn’t stay on the ground too long. 

It’s almost time now and I see her fondling the bus pass in her hand, massaging the corners like a baby blanket.  That ticket is her free pass to becoming anyone else.  She had those same socks on that she had worn so many years ago, finally holding their own and bracing her ankles, ready to take these next steps with her.  I was out of view, but I wondered if she could feel me like I could feel her.  She had her sketch pad in her left hand, and her blue backpack hanging off her shoulder.  It had held beers that got us drunk for the first time, various outfits for her to change into so that she might escape her house without being slurred at, called trash, or being told she was asking for whatever came to her.  It had held letters we had written each other our first year of high school.  Now it held nothing and because of that, it held everything.  I could see her starting to fade out already, her past dissolving away.  The bus driver walked by her, and I could hear him mention something about needing to be careful riding a bus so late and being so young.  She brushed her braid back nervously and thanked him for his concern.  He pulled on his suspenders and asked if anyone knew she was here.  A mom? Boyfriend? Anyone to see you off? I heard him inquire.  No mom, she said.  Then she hesitated. The boyfriend word had never been comfortable to her. She suddenly dropped to the ground. I lurched forward, ready to be there to pick her up.  She pretended to adjust her perfectly in place socks, staying focused on the ground holding her up.  He looked at this strange, beautiful vessel on the ground, shrugged and walked away. Kids these days, he must be thinking. The bus revved up.  All aboard!  I checked my watch.  It was time. People started to line up now, eager to seek new beginnings, and maybe looking to get away from old ones. She stayed there for a while, almost too long, looking at her shoes.  Just as I began to move from my post, she stood.  She stood tall, and she smiled.  She took her braids out and shook out that long brown hair.  She stood in line, and awaited her turn.  Suspender guy looked at her, smiled, took her pass, stamped it, and handed it back to her. She thanked him back, then turned to her right.  My first instinct was to turn away, wade back the way I always had.  She smiled at me and winked.  She winked.  I had never seen her do that before.  I knew I could get on that bus.  I had already bought a pass, just in case she couldn’t get up on her own.  But now she was standing, smiling and winking.  She didn’t even look winded. What was she trying to say to me?  Did she need me?  Or was this her being reborn, and telling me she had what she needed now?  She did what she did best and disappeared into thin air, vanishing through the door and taking her seat on the bus.  I don’t know if I ever really knew her. I guess some people aren’t meant to be known by anyone but themselves. Suspender guy called last call and I stared at my ticket.

I looked up at the bus.   That girl had mountains in her now. She’d always had the mountains in her. 

First Short Story

.K SG C.

 

The High.

The restraints had been taken off.

I heard the shackles hit the floor, and the key felt warm in my hand. 

I had forgetten how heavy the weights were, and how much relief I was capable of feeling. 

I felt weightless, only for a minute. 

I looked around with adoration.

I felt anticipation for the potential in the weightlessness I was about to be given. 

It felt boundless, limitless, positive. I sucked in my surroundings like it was my heroin, reaching to feel the intoxication and the rush of injecting life back into my veins. It would last. I don't know how long, but I was hoping it would be long enough to be transported away. I embraced back the squeeze from the air, and became reacquainted with the giddy unknown of today.  This felt good. I had been elusive to how good this felt. I looked out. Everything was whizzing past me now. Not so much a blur, but a static. A comforting static. Everything was in clarity, but as I sank into a trance, it lost focus. I let it. Greens and blues and whites danced around alongside me and I could hear their anthems. Slow, beautiful, fortunate. They were lucky. They had access to all this time. I felt my first pang of heaviness. If often arrived shortly after. It started small. I knew It would not grow until later. But I could feel it manifesting, sitting, waiting. I sang it away with my instruments of new found liberation, and was at ease once again. Before I knew it, I found myself amongst the unfamiliar. It was then that I realized how profuse my appreciation was for being amongst strangers. It was then I realized how long it had been since I felt home. A concrete kind. This newness held the most security. Avenues I had not taken held the utmost excitement as cracks under my feet, unexpected turns, and new art clad my journey and periferials. These came as gifts. Everything was spinning and the record kept playing. I could hear everything. Every color, face, step. It sounded lovely. It felt remarkably different from anything else. I could still feel the marks from where the shackles had once been and pulled my sleeve down.  No time for that now. I looked amongst eyes of different shapes, hairs of different colors, strides of different speeds. Each of these came with a stream of stories that attached them to the sounds and colors of this place. I pictured it like a cloak, flowing behind each person like a compilation of every moment leading up to their being here. I began creating them myself; extravagant ones, humble ones. For people I had not known, but in this moment felt close to. I was envious at those whose stories kept them here for long, feeling what I feel now but permanently. I tried to imagine what this upbeat, yet hushed life could do to a persons longevity. It seemed nice. I'm sure it didn't work out like that all the time, but it was not the first time I utilized naivety in exchange for peace of mind. I knew not what time it was. I liked not having to countdown.  

Something. What was that thing? I could hear something in the back of my fantasizing and contemplating frame of mind. It sounded obnoxious. Loud. I couldn't really tell what spawned it, but it sounded menacing. And just like that, I knew it. The thing I was worried about, subduing, pushing away. I could feel it slithering around. It began to consume every beautiful thought I had incurred while exploring this weightlessness. I cried out for it to stop, begged for mercy, fought it even. I continued to move. Things whizzed past me again, and sounds were muted. I hadn't a chance to digest the wonder happening around me anymore in the midst of my internal battle. I looked down. I was in quicksand. I fought I fought I fought. I had nothing to hold me up.  I desperately tried to summon what high I had left, what I had seen, what I had felt. But this unknown force was stripping these things from me, replacing it with heavier things, rapidly bringing me down.

Then it all stopped. 

I could feel it on my face. It began to swirl around me and everything. stopped.

It was dark now but a single light was on. The music was more melancholy but I found a way out and I needed to take it. It was faint, the music. I closed my eyes. One face remained among the many I had seen earlier. I looked into it and saw no fabricated stream of stories and memories I had made up, but real ones. Lovely ones. Some, I shared. I could see me in some of them. I felt a wave of rejuvenation after it all. I had forgotten that the real world in which I dwelled was not bad at all. Weights I had placed upon myself came from my tendency to overcompensate for the hurt of others, and what I can not control. The rain created a curtain and the world around us was now shut out. Part of that made me sad, yet the other part brought me grace. I looked out to the water, the faintest of nightlights in the hills. I resisted the urge to just sit there, and let myself be cleansed, and let myself be fixed. But I was reminded just then of the worlds inability to completely nurse. I had been looking to this day and this high and this weightlessness to be the salvation I needed. The problem in doing this,I came to find, was I had surrendered my ability to fix myself before I even started. I saw now how vulnerable this made me, and how susceptible I was now to crumbling under an array of things gone haywire. I looked to the sky and let the darkness shut my eyelids and I felt every drop hit, and journey down the cascades of my face. I knew it would have to end. But in this end, I wanted to find a start. The monster in my head came dressed as anxiety, guilt, frustration, paranoia. It came dressed as so many things, it fed on my inability to divide and conquer. By the end of my high, I was heavy and tired and this was unforgiving to the face which I had shared a cloak with, and myself. I was surging in and out of being shackled and being free and I could feel the toll it was taking, and the unwanted transformation I was hastily making. It was time to let go of what I could not change, begin to trust in myself more, and to create my own static. The one I had not so long ago, but had given up in the midst of fighting my battles. I would not go back to the tortures of weight I foolishly placed on myself.  I had missed the old me, and I was going to get her back. 

I could feel the light again. The key felt cold in my hand. I chucked it out into the vast waters, and heard the shackles hit the floor. I looked to the face which had loved me before I placed weights upon myself, and remembered the girl he saw.

The restraints would never come back. 

A new kind of high started.

I would no longer hold myself down. 

.K SG C.

Nick.

This too shall pass.

I suppose it will. It usually does.

But in the meantime, I figured I could give the passing a little nudge. 

One of my most abided by commandments as a young adult is,"thou shalt shower, and If it's not fixed, write." 

So I sat in the shower, silence my aid and the warm water my remedy. As the warm water hit my eye lids and cascaded down my cheeks, my shoulders and flowed down my revealed back, finally spilling into a puddle underneath my body, I realized that I would not fix this without some more nudging. So here I am, hoping to nudge enough to reach a little peace.

I don't exactly know how this is going to go. I usually go into my writes with a little 

more vision. Maybe not even that, but usually I have a mental funnel that I pour ideas down in order to reach a more channeled point, or a more filtered final understanding. I'm here to go, I guess. And go. And go. And go. Until I feel like

I've worn out my brain and it's never ending running. I'm not sure how this is going to conclude, but peace is really all I'm hoping to see at the end.

What I know is as I sit here, I am sad. Not in general, or more often than not, but I get pangs. I get tired and I get difficult and that is because when I get sad, I get quiet. I combat that with loudness inside. I know I'm not unique from others in this, and there is something reassuring but vaguely upsetting in that fact.

I knew a guy. He was just a guy. He was a guy I passed often as a child, easily forgot about as an adult. I knew he had faced difficulties as many had, but the prevalence of his personal trials did not come to my attention until after he died.

He died. 

I know I have written of death before, but in my growing, I chose to write again.

He had tired eyes. 

He had tired eyes long before he passed. I remember thinking he was reminiscent of an old dog- do you know what I mean? 

Perhaps you don't.

Old dogs have this ware on their bodies, their expressions. At least from my experience with old dogs, instead of letting their age debilitate, as many old

humans might, it more acts as a filter on top of their inherent need to be a dog. It's like their happy, loving, and blissful personalities are not halted, but just stretched out a bit by years and age and many days of greeting you with wide eyeballs, jumps, and exhilarated barks. 

He had these qualities. I remember looking at him and thinking, in my childlike state, he looks tired but not in the way that he inflicts. Like he was born tired, and that was a perma filter, but not a hinderance.

He died. Earlier this week. 

Nick was his name. 

Nick. 

So appropriate for a guy that so artfully blended into the background, harbored no enemies, and existed in his filters.

I think I hugged him lots.

It's been a long time.

He lived in the room at the top of my church. I knew living in that room indicated whoever resided took care of the church. You know, locking up, reporting issues, general stuff. I remember being grateful for him living there because the church was my place. I spent many days during the summer playing, creating, imagining there. More days during the year after school and on weekends hanging around with my mom, making friends with the janitors, members of the congregation and other office workers. Making friends, learning about God and all the questions surrounding him/her and making memories I look back on until this day fill my brain as I think about it.

He was young. Probably in his 20's I thought. Mid twenties. He was always so nice. So nice. Nice was his anthem. I knew nothing of him other than he took care of the place I loved, never failed to smile back or hug back the silly little chick who smiled at him and hugged him even when he hardly knew her.

He looked like a guy who could always use a hug or smile. Today, I'm happy I saw that.

He walked with a cane.

I thought that strange as well. I had only  known those significantly older to utilize the uses of these canes. An accident,

I thought. He'd probably been in an accident. He never let it intude on his duties patrolling my beloved church, and certainly never his other loves. 

It was Monday.

At this point, I hadn't thought of Nick since my younger days as he had left to go onto other endeavors.

Monday I sat at my dinner table and looked to my mom and asked about her day. She held a passiveness about her as she responded with an automated fine, and a tired silence. 

"A guy died this weekend. Nick. He used to take care of the church. Sara has been texting me about it all day." 

Huh, I thought. I offered my condolences to my mom and then asked for details. I assumed he was old, as, many caretakes of the church usually had been. 

"Nick, you may remember him. Nick Lewis. He walked with a cane? Was blonde?" 

Nick.

My food was no longer appetizing.

The room was no longer just quiet.

He was no longer just a guy.

"Nick?"

"Yeah. Nick."

I felt the lump in my throat and the heavy on my chest.

My dad was on my left. 

My mom began to cry.

My dad continued to eat.

My mom dove into his past. He was born into a family of mentally ill. Was diagnosed with cancer at ten. Cured. Became homeless. New diagnosis of cancer. Didn't have money for treatment. Leg got bad because of said inability to pay, started walking with cane. Moved to church where he had place to stay. Got involved in amazing church activities and groups. Tried to get book of photography published unsuccessfully. Meets girlfriend, get engaged. Had aspirations to do graphic design, new cancer diagnosis. Dies at 34.

My heart aches and my eyes burn now just like they did as my mom recited this back to me. 

My dad gets up and leaves.

No acknowledgement or love is offered upon moment of breakdown.

"Susie! We need to go!"

She wipes her eyes, quickly and snaps together.

"Okay. Let me get my shoes on." 

We all left, every ounce of sympathy drained from anyone.

I was angry. 

I drank and spent times with those I loved. Drank more than I should've. sucessfully forgot about how upset I was that mercy could not be spared to someone who deserved it, nor sympathy spared to someone who needed it.

Fucking sweet.

My heart ached for all parties that had suffered.

How could this happen like this? 

I had hardly known Nick. We had only briefly entangled our seperate existences, and yet my heart fucking ached for him.

I'm angry that someone that had been dealt so much more than any one person should ever have to be faced it so bravely and never seemed to catch a break. I cursed fate, or karma and even God: I was confused as to why someone that never once complained, or let bitterness overtake, or used every bit of adversity he faced as an excuse to hate life could not catch a god damn moment of peace. My heart hurt. Everything hurt.

The following days I felt numb, unable to get his sweet, tired face out of my mind.  I took advantage of every distraction. 

His funeral was tuesday. 

My mother attended. She cried again. I cried too.

I had never understood, or showed any patience, for those who felt obligated to make large, boisterous statements about someone who had passed when they had not known them or hardly known them.

Today, I gain understanding. I suppose you can never really judge a person grieving by the outer appearance of their reasoning. Let people be sad. Losing a human is hard, no matter the acquaintance.

I have been bothered my nicks passing for a while now, and feel that I do not owe any explaination as to why. I just know he was a good person who I felt drawn to as a child and had played a significant role in my growing up without really having to be there. 

So, here I am. I am frustrated by so many things outside my power seperate of this one event, and find myself opting to spiral into isolation. The more I have to talk about it, the more real and confusing and frustrating it becomes. But in the midst of all this other stuff that is making my want to pull my hair out, I think of Nick. 

Cancer three times? 

Homeless?

Disappointment in an endeavor?

Leaving a loved one in the rear view mirrors.

From the beginning, he was up against life. 

I have not been able to shake this, and I don't think I will.

The thought "he never even had a chance to fight back" has been driving me nuts. 

35 years old. 

Jesus.

How on earth does that happen.

Monday night.

I'm sitting across from a fellow human, and we are talking. I make sure Nick stays away from the forefront of conversation and we discuss life; our viewpoints, aspirations, beliefs.

I have always been an advocate of living a full life. BY this I mean going to college, falling in love, getting a good job, doing as much as you can, traveling, etc. etc. etc..... This is the indicator that you have had a full, and satisfying life. No room for regret and that might be the root of my pain for Nick, a man who never had time, money, or means to do a lot of the things I picture as whole. My heart ached for the things he maybe wanted to do but couldn't. 

I shared this with this person, and they reaponded after a bit of silence, and then a little more chatting.

He said, "as long as I have someone to love, someone to love me back, and the ability to do something I love, that's all I  need." 

I could feel it passing.

In that moment, I realized that Nick had all those things. Perhaps, in a life where you have so little, you measure in things you do have rather than things you don't. A full life can not be measured in things you didn't have a chance to do, but all the things you made happen with what you had. I found refuge in the fact that

Nick had a fiancé. 

A gal he loved entirely, and a gal who loved him entirely back. To the very end.

He had his art, his photography. 

He had a life. A life that had been shown to me as a life that was enough. 

This entire week, I have been wrestling with this fact.  Trying to accept this wonderful human, who had such a kind grace about him, lived to be a mere 35, faced so much adversity, and seemed to receive the "short end of the stick" every time he drew, had lived a life that was enough. It has made me look at my own life and question the current state of my living and if it is "enough" and come to terms with the fact that bad stuff sometimes happens, and it just...

Happens. We can't do a whole lot about it except love love love. BIGTIME. As much as we can, as Nick had done. Until the very end.

This person who had been lost for a while never felt so lost as his soul feels to me now. A truly inspiring person he was. 

Dealing with my stubborn, but fair personality has been difficult in this time. I wanted this guy to have everything as he had proven he deserved. But after I look at it now, I do find peace in the fact that he strolled out of this life with a bang. He served as a role model and successfully achieved a full life with so little.

My heart aches still, and dealing with a loss this strangely personal might take a bit, but my nudging efforts have been successful and today, I find a peace I have been longing for. 

Perhaps a kind of peace that Nick had found at the end of his time, and a peace I hope to not pass.

.K SG C.

First time.

It was the first time.

I was a mere 19.

Naive enough to repeatedly trust toxic delusions, vigilant enough to know they were nothing more than just that.

I remember it was the first time.

It was cold outside and I thought that was appropriate.

You opened the doors and stood there in shock. You couldn't believe I had shown.

I couldn't believe it either.

I remember how the hug felt. It felt old, but new. This embrace felt like hope, but traces of it reminded me of the old you. Traces of it reminded me of so many other embraces we had that either concluded bad times, or started worse ones. 

But the old newness this embrace held sucked me into you, and the apprehension I felt deep beaneath our wrapped arms and touching cheeks lured me into your treachery and kept my

vigilance at bay.

Embraces turned to looks across the room. Looks across the room turned into knowing glances as we peaked over our glasses and saw the same mischievous look returned.  Those glances increased and our insides began to vibrate and tensions intensified as we all became aware of the forbidness and tragedy of it all. I remember the urgency that ensued shortly thereafter and before we could discuss it, withhold ourselves, or sabatoge our nonexistent potential further, we were giving in.

We ducked around the corner and in an effort to make up for everytime we hadn't but wanted to, or wanted to but couldn't, your lips found mine and together, we began to destroy each other.

After that, we did what we did best. We let each other down time and time again, and just as I thought we could really pull it together, you left, and that was it.

I don't remember much about how it felt, the first time. I remember the erotic panic that came with our crossing boundaries and doing what we shouldnt. I remember the rush of denying my intuition, and risking my heart. What I remember most is not about how our lips felt moving and caressing in a desperate fashion, or how our hands felt through each other's hair. What I remember most is not how a simple kiss could be so far from a simple kiss.  What I remember most is accepting it was the beginning of the end for us, and the first time I thought I could love someone, it hurt.

It was the second time. 

I was 20.

You were patient and I was wrecked and you chose to stay. 

It was sunny out, and I thought that was appropriate.

You knew of my first time. You knew no name, you knew no face, but you knew what I had become because of it and you were desperate to be my second and last time.

I remember thinking that was sweet, but I told you I wasn't worth the time, and you said nonsense.

It all happened very quickly, my second time. I felt a tremendous amount of hope as you continued to stay and choose me even when you had nothing to grab onto.  As time passed, I felt recharged, I felt safe, and I felt a numbness to my first time. You began to fix all the parts I had thought unfixable in the beginning.

I had my doubts, you know.

I remember thinking how good it was. I finally felt like my head was above water, and you were a fresh breath of air. I no longer thought of my first time, and you began to reshape what my future could look like.

It was night when it happened. I had been wondering if we would reach this point. I had felt a satisfaction with us, a comfort that I hadn't known, and I wondered if there would be a confirmation that established this feeling for you and I. 

We stood beneath the stars, the trees bearing witness, and it happened. It wasn't as poetic as I thought it would be, nor did it hold the sparks I had imagined it might, but in it I found a bounding sense of safety and affection and fondness. It was a luxury I had yet to know, and I could not pass it up.

It was sometime later. We were far from each other now, determined we could run on what we had created together. 

I don't remember a lot about the conversation. I do remember the hopelessness that set in as you had sent me flowers, and letters, and sweet nothings from afar, and I still hadn't anything to give. I don't remember a lot about what you said, or I said. I do remember the look in your eyes as you asked me to stay as you had stayed for me, and pleaded with me to make this work. I remember bowing my head as your eyes burned into mine, and I felt tremendous guilt.  

Despite my efforts, I could not give you everything you had so vibrantly and bravely gave me.

What I remember most is not any of these things, but that the second time I thought I could love someone, I ended up destroying them as I had first been destroyed, and it hurt just as bad.

It was the third time.

I was almost 21 now and my efforts in loving and being loved in return had proven futile.

I felt guilt from my second time, but as I began to heal, I felt as though I was manifesting something to give. I felt like I just might have something for someone to hold onto.

It started our dark, and turned light. 

I thought that was very appropriate.

We started our talking late at night. We finished talking early the next morning. We haven't stopped since.

You sauntered in unexpectedly. I was prepared to go out into the year unattached entirely, so that I might give someone something complete, and whole, and I might be able to find that back.

But you were lovely, and you saw me, and made me feel. 

You appealed to every bit of my senses, and I felt a very foreign kind of draw to you. A draw stronger than any time before that. 

It was the third time, but by now, I had forgotten about the first 2.

It was a whirlwind, but it was not rushed.

You had been broken too. 

Your breaker using different forces to crack you, but broken none the less. You let me know this, but I did not see you that way, as you did not see me that way either.

You were perfect for me, and I for you, and that fact did not rely on the past, but what we were now. 

We weren't tragic, or needing fixed.

We were just us. We were new to each other, and we did not dwell on the past.

For the first time, I was too caught up in the present to drag my past into it.

I remember you didn't waste any time and I don't remember the last time I had ever felt so excited. 

We were up high. We gazed upon airplanes taking off and the sky changing colors, talking about sunsets, and futures, and foods, and everything mattered, but nothing mattered. 

We spun around on the top of this place, laughing heartily, forgetting about our

misgivings. I was terrified, but ready. I did not feel just "comfortable" nor did I feel apprehensive. 

My third time felt something all on its own, and my insides were flooded.

You grabbed my waist and pulled me close, and with the sky to bear witness, and the worst of it behind us, it happened.

I knew these were the lips I would want to kiss and the hands that I would want to cup the small of my back for the rest of it all. 

I remember everything about the kiss. It held no lurking suspicions, nor did it foreshadow bad decisions. It didn't feel just safe, or just satisfying.  I felt it open a door I had never opened, and light begin to shine through. 

It had been so long since I wanted to write about someone from a painless standpoint.

Although I remember everything to this day about the kiss, what I remember most is that it was the third time I thought I could love someone, and I did. 

I did.

I smiled to myself and kissed him again.

It was the first time.

.K SG C.

The Passage.

It is 6:19 am. 

I am in the same spot I had lain in the hours that proceeded this point but find no greater comfort with the passing minutes.

It was 9:46pm.

We threw back a first drink and with the sweet relief of alcohol trickling down our throats, we saw the possibility of passage through the hidden miseries of our reality.

It seemed fair and it seemed attainable, so we followed this escape from our inner failures and swam. At 9:46, the water seemed inviting and the other side seemed close.

It was 10:23pm.

I no longer relied on what I could see as the second drink grasped my visibility and told me to trust my instinct. I listened to it, and it sounded like 80's rock and roll. So I danced, and you danced, and within our blindness, we began to find refuge in the sound of forgetting.

It was 11-something.

Time no longer seemed like a reliable system to abide by so we threw back our third drink, knowing that by our third, we ought to be very close. The waters grew rocky and with no sight and no sense of time, we coasted on the freedom from our poisons to lead us to acceptance.

It was ?

We followed this Passage to the bathroom around the corner, where we laughed giddily and it seemed we had made it through. We collapsed on the bathroom floor together in an oasis of hilarity, and immediately began to investigate our seemingly newfound independence from all the failures that had been wedged between us. It had been a long time since we laughed like this and although the distance from us to the outside seemed significant, the buzz of the music on the other side of the door kept us attached to shore.

It was dark.

It was late now and we knew it. Like the end of the music outside, our euphoria came to an end as you made eye contact with me and I saw you. Our laughing halted and you looked at me and I at you and suddenly, I needed another drink. I could see your visibility return and time restore in your brain and you were gone. Like a fixed alarm clock, I was set back to 9:46 and 

I was no longer close.

We were no longer close.

Instead, We felt sad and farther than ever. 

Our mirage of a paradise evaporated and the floor made itself known. It felt cold.

We were suddenly all too aware of our gullibility and all too quickly found ourselves struggling through the waters of our consumption and embarrassment. We had lost ourselves and we had lost the faith in each other where it had once been so stationary and we were finally shaken. Never had we experienced such a blunt acceptance of failing each other, and as we passed our judgements, it felt unfamiliar and unfriendly and for a second, we lay there, broken together.

We were invincible once, you know.

It was darker. 

Without saying a word, we looked at each other. Time was but a limiting factor now and visibility brought us pain as we looked into each others eyes and felt that burning sensation of failure. A feeling as though we had failed, and we were flailing and sinking, desperately trying to rescue each other.

We thought we had found the way. We thought we found the way out of our mutual tortures but now, we felt our sorrows make home in our chests and feel heavier than ever. And the worst part was, we thought our salvation would be found on a dirty bathroom floor, three drinks in, and our ability to remember debilitated. 

It was now 12:18am.

Reality addressed us formally. We left our faux Passage and returned to a surrounding we had not even given ourselves a chance to recall. It felt foreign, and we felt hopeless as time ticked on and the music began to stop and all these people danced along to ignorance and the bliss that came with that. We left our Passage behind us, and as a last hoorah, threw back the last of our third and tipped the bartender 20 for his attempt at finding us redemption.

Now it's 6:42am.

I can still feel your eyes looking into mine as you saw me and I saw you and we realized together that there is no passage out of the way things are. With a dry throat, a pounding head and light beginning to ooze through my windows, I am reminded of this.

We had tried our best to cover it up, push dirt over it, forget about the hard and fast fact that we were no longer exempt from failing each other and it hurt. It hurt because you did not fail me and I did not fail you, but we felt as though we had and in that thinking, we did. 

I hoped that we could regain our confidence in our own selves so that we could stop hurting in our rooms, aching for the other, hoping the other would not know. I wanted to be okay with how things were turning out, but I could not transcend your disappointment in yourself for what was out of your power. I felt the unfairness of it all and felt as though I had failed because I could not remove that. Conversely, I could see you wanting to be okay with the way everything was turning out, but guilt would eat at you as you saw me (rightfully) accept blame, where you would like to have taken it from me. You felt as though you failed because for the first time, you could not eliviate fault that was not yours. We were being too good to each other, and in that goodness we were 

Failing.

How about that huh?

Perhaps, with this understanding, and our stumbling through our fake passage, there was potential now for us to build again what had deteriorated all these years. Perhaps we had found our Passage after all, but a Passage to a next step, not a Passage to an escape. 

It was 6:47 am.

I took my first drink of water since my night began and for the first time in a while I felt refreshed. 

And with my second glass, and my third glass, I finally began to feel relinquished as our passage turned to light and we were no longer drowning.

.K SG C.