No Title.

     It's funny that in the static between song changes on the car radio, the Jesus channel, for lack of a better name, comes through clearly with bits of sermon I always feel guilty about silencing. It's funny because it's me, and so many people seem to associate my idea of religion as a joke. (Note to self: make sure people know that just because I joke about religion doesn't mean I consider it a joke.) 
     Tonight while selecting songs the deep voice of some preacher was speaking a truth I should be grasping for while I tumble rage around like ice in an empty glass. Pointless. It was about enemies, forgiveness, and the lack of validation for their wrongdoings. I'm not sure I can believe with the faith some possess so strongly. I'll remember it though, write it down. Maybe it'll feel right some day. 
     I've never been one to need guidance from an entity I've considered more as looming than nurturing. I can't trust it. I can't trust anything. But I'm not sure if all these feelings in the pit of my stomach are just chemical. I'm not sure when I'll stop thinking about God when the streetlights go out. There's still some hope it's not just malfunction, that we're not all just flickering on and off. 
     I am sure that tonight, on a Sunday, my decisions feel different. They feel true. They aren't burdened by insecurity, wonder, or the thick pessimism that coats most of my days. Maybe I've shed some skin. Maybe the company I'm in currently is just long overdue. Maybe I should always keep the streetlights a mystery.
     But I think I'm on my way to grasping something I lost last summer, or the one before. Or  maybe it's always been missing. 

"Sleep. Don't weep."

     Your eyes open, but not intentionally. It's as if the night's anesthesia has been lifted, and your eyelids flutter open. They're heavy. You're midway between sleep's paralysis and waking's motion. Look through the spaces between the blinds. The sky isn't as black as you think. It's the type of sky that can mean late night or early morning. You're not sure which you'd prefer. Voices on the television are trying to sell acne treatments and quick weight loss tips. You don't have to look to know what their owners look like. Happy. Smiling. Plain haircuts and colors. Clear skin. Enthusiasm. You wish you could be them. Enthralled by walks through forests and afternoons on wooden swing sets. You hate them because you can't believe them. You can't sleep without the murmur of their voices lulling you into scarce periods of sleep.
     You long for these fleeting comas. The only useful distraction. How much can you write in a day? Paint in a day? Read in a day? Fuck in a day? Sing in a day? Speak in a day? How many times can you forget a lifetime only to remember it again when your eyes open, when your hands start working right? How long will it feel like a lump in your throat? A welling of tears that never spill over?
     Turn off the television. Lay in silence. On your right side. Then your left. Then your stomach, but never your back. Breathe. Count your breaths. Remind yourself to breathe. Tell you're brain to stop. It's time for rest. It's time to stop fighting. The silence is louder than sin. What is all this noise? This pounding? Stop breathing. 
     You knew it was your heart. You know it's always this loud. And everyone else knows it too.

Let's just get this over with...

There are footsteps outside. Some in a hurry. Some that don't really belong here anymore. They make too much noise. They never stop at my door. I blink. My eyes are dry. I have been laying here staring out the window at this tree behind a streetlight. It's wearing fall colors. But it's not beautiful like you'd read in a book or a poem. It's disgusting. It looks like illness, like suffering, like change. There isn't a cloud in the sky and the streetlight is modern and dirty. Nothing looks like it's in its right place. All these fucking houses look the same. I've got to get away from this view.


Years ago I wrote about this tree, this streetlight. It was a month when all the houses had their Christmas lights up, but mine. The sky was grey, and I wasn't sad, I remember. I wrote this piece about the tree from a man's perspective. It was shit. It was foolish of me. I still don't know how men think. They probably don't ponder over Christmas lights.


I can't look at the tree for much longer. I wish I could stay here until the sky turns black and the streetlight becomes useful, but my body aches and my brain needs a shower. I worry that the smell of smoke, and sex, and rum, and roses, and beer, and perfume, and vomit, and sweat, and pine, and toothpaste, and hairspray, and adolescence will never wash off completely. I'll always catch the smell when I least expect it. Everything now will remind of something then, and I will hold my breath until I know how things will pan out. I have been holding my breath, did you know?


So I scrub until my skin turns red, and then breaks, and my eyes aren't so dry anymore. I scrub so that the list, the aforementioned list that sits atop my chest at night, is gone; becoming new scars that just trace the old ones.
I stand naked in front of the mirror. Reflected. Reflecting, constantly. I see messages I wrote myself, like post-it's on the fridge or notes in margins.


Things to Remember...

• Hope
• Balance
• Keep Growing
• Levity
• Build yourself back up when you've broken
• Heal from the inside, out. 
• "Tomorrow I shall sing more sweetly."
• "Try and live."

Sometimes I'm good at not listening. Not leaving. Not paying attention. Not using my head. Not seeing.
I'm better at disappearing.

Laundry

Every time I put a clean pillow case on my pillow I see the bloodstain from the time my ex-boyfriend's nose bled in the middle of the night. I think about how much he apologized for it in the morning. Then I think about all the things he didn't apologize for. The things he never will apologize for. That bloodstain makes me instantly nostalgic; not for him, but for that time when things felt like they were working out. "Working out" meaning the way I thought things were supposed to happen. 


I don't know what that way is anymore. 


Lately I've been down. I'd like to be up. The shower drain is clogged with more hair than I remember having and I have to struggle daily wondering where all my cigarettes went. I've been prescribed pills by friends who aren't pharmacists. They help. The friends and the pills, but only until morning. 


I need to write more stories. I need to climb out of this. I need to go to bed. I need a massage. 


Bottom line: It's late (or early depending on how you tell time), I'm drunk, the sleeping pill is kicking in, I needed to put some words down tonight, and if they're all spelled correctly I will sleep soundly. 

Dear Mr. Carver-

     You said all we have is words. I think of this often; when filling these pages; before I display my heart on new tables, in unfamiliar houses that smell like home; while I replay or write future conversations. But I do not have the right words tonight.
     There are few dark roads or empty parking lots in this town I haven’t littered with cigarette butts and the contents of my head. The car stereo will never be as loud as I need it to be. It plays words written by men I’ve never met, juxtaposed in perfect lines. They’ve all felt this before. This isn’t new to anyone.
     With every night lit by passing headlights my voice gets softer, my tongue dry, it gets harder to weave the right words. My mouth moves in familiar patterns, silently trying to recall a time when the noise it made drew the hairs on the back of someone’s neck toward the sky. Affected.
     I always meant to speak simply, even in my long-winded sentences. Tonight, I feel so simply, without, that silence seems like the only thing I can say. It’s been a while since I’ve heard my own voice. There are no mirrors for that.
     I admire you for your simplicity. For the scenes you paint with brevity. For your words. For the weight you’ve placed upon them. I believed you when you said they are all that we have and we must make them right. But tonight I wonder if all we have are the words what can be done when there’s nothing left to say?

-K

"That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones."