Loving this tiny creature so much opened me up to a depth of unimaginable pain when he passed. I can’t put into polite words the personal terror and gruesomeness of endings like these, that I have known more than once, and have gone through alone. Some people act like having compassion for creatures is a sign of weakness but if I were a weak person I would have closed my heart after the others to never feel this kind of pain again. And if I’d done that I would have never met Owen. If you know me, you know what he meant to me, and if you don’t know what he meant to me, you don’t know me. Loving a person or a creature all the way, with your whole heart, is the bravest thing I can think of and fuck the weak people who act otherwise.
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What is the point of me
Measuring time by progress through an economy sized pack of toilet paper
Everything wraps around itself self-consciously
adding new layers of trauma to repressed wounds and
smoothing over the sharp edges of voids faced directly
I don’t want to be smoothed
I need to feel every watery knife carving the grand canyon into my heart
trauma trauma trauma
Every crater on your face an impact where you protected me
but how could you know you’d be the worst of all
You’re still with me in every little thought
circling my feet, circling my earth
My stupid shitty self-absorbed world you were so patient with me
We slowed down so much these last few years but
I never imagined it was already your time
Except that I did, constantly
and every time it got too scary I’d lie down and put you on my chest and imagine us floating through space together for the rest of eternity
I’ll carry your weight in my chest until the day I die
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Maybe things seeming worse at night represents a faulty philosophy of the finality of life – the darkness from which we came and into which we ultimately must go. We forget that the only reason we exist at all is because we tried to interpret this cycle, becoming half of a DNA strand, we grew eyes and ears and the other half grew into great balls of burning gas floating in cycles all around us. Our emptiness grasps at these waves of light, which flower into creation in the chasms of our senses. We look into our own emptiness and think how dreadful it would be to be stuck forever in such a state, barely noticing the echoes countering our weight as we ripple together through infinite space.
Leave a CommentWaking up after 12 hours without hydrocodone feels like someone turned the gravity up to 5000. I’m a constellation of all the aches and pains it has graciously allowed me to ignore over the last 3 days, but I’m no longer floating through space. My body feels like a jumbled bag of clanging weights with no padding. The one part I actually WANT to feel is still numb to the touch. It’s like having a stranger’s skin grafted to the side of my head. It’s swollen and distorted with no internal feedback loop to complete the circuit of my accidental pokes and scratches. How will I ever know if I have something on that side of my face? The extent of the damage to the facial nerve is unclear at this point. I keep expecting it to wake up. It’s that feeling of sleeping too hard on an extremity and all the blood is about to rush back in and any minute I’ll be whole again. She said it would probably stay like that. I can trace a line around the seemingly arbitrary edges of numbness, the lower half of my ear, everything behind it out to the nape, a radial from there up to the middle of my chin, everything within the hollow up my left cheek. I’m surprised I can even move it. When I’m not touching it this line feels like an event horizon, a gravity well encroaching slowly from the left, pulling information from disconnected senses and sending it straight into oblivion. Not unlike the various ways I’ve imagined a stroke would feel. Would the tumor have ever done this much damage if I’d left it?
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N: A word that can mean the opposite of itself
Leave a CommentThere’s something important about polarization that I haven’t grasped yet. Something essential to interdimensional travel. Putting this here to remind me to expand on this thought.
often find myself afraid to use a word
without knowing the entirety of its meaning
but then regard uncertainty as actuation instead
the very occasion of infinity
a subtle quantum entendre
where x and y meet z
each member described relative to the other
then stretched out over eternity
lay into me like light into dark
until one cannot exist without the other
entangled in a bed of multiple-entendres
doubling in on ourselves forever
It gets all in the way, the pit in my throat
This isn’t the adulthood I thought I wrote
And I never see your face, but I just might be okay with that
I have no eyes, I have no love, I have no hope
Corona has always been my go-to comfort drink. Probably because it goes down like liquid tortillas.
I still remember being slowly introduced to the exciting world of beer by D. We split a six pack of New Belgium Fat Tire in a hotel room in Addison the summer after my freshman year. One of those sticky for no good reason memories. It all started when we were walking through Sams one afternoon and found a 24 pack of Coronas on sale for $22. I asked him to buy me them.
It seemed like they lasted forever. They disappeared one at a time. I shared them with Kristina. I drank at least 6 the night D and I broke up and threw up everywhere.
It comes up like liquid tortillas too.
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