12 Day Holiday Gift-Giving Forecast, Fig. 1

Half.

Half.

Half a tank of gas, half a roll of toilet paper.

Half his life, half the man he used to be.

Half the house, half the dogs…

Half a mind to throw in the towel,

Half the money to even buy a vowel.

Half a world away,

Perhaps the half that got away.

No better half, just half.

Looking.

To be whole.

It’s Never Okay.

“It’s never okay,” she said, giving her very best attempt at a stern look.

He found it quite charming. With that one statement grounded in resolution and finality, he found himself consumed. He had to do it. It felt like a compulsion. It took every ounce of his willpower to comply to her wish.

He became obsessed.

Sitting on the couch, her foot dangling precariously over the edge, taking him along with it—it sat, bare and teasing; taunting him. Inviting him like a serpent holding an apple.

When he was a child, his dad’s friend came over one summer evening, just before the sun relented to the lightning bugs. He had just bought a motorcycle.

The moment his younger self heard the rumble and roar outside the front room window, he was captivated. He ran outside as his father’s friend kicked open the stand and shut off the engine.

“Be careful not to touch it,” he said, removing his large, heavy, sweat-drenched helmet, and placing it on his head, tapping it with a large, rough knuckle. “You’ll get burned.”

With that, he was left outside, staring at his first taste of forbidden fruit. His first moment of temptation. He sat down, Indian style, helmet still on, transfixed on the engine.

He had to touch it.

It burned the living hell out his hand but the relief he felt, having succumbed to the pressure, outweighed the pain tenfold.

He looked up at her, then back down at her foot. Her beautiful, calloused, dancer’s foot and leaned in, ready to get burned. She was staring at him, her eyebrows scrunched, her glare as stern as she could make it.

“It’s never okay.”

Deliver Me

How sweet the sound of broken hallelujah, how strong the howl of man…

this weary soul is not worth saving, but I do the best I can…

I hate my wrinkles, my skin and bones, I hate my weary face,
It’s always staring back at me, it whispers sweet disgrace…

how soft the breath of sweet temptation, how shallow is the grave
How quickly we expect salvation, though we haven’t earned the save

I’m a hurricane, a wrecking ball a monster in my skin
A demon with a halo, a punchbowl spiked with gin

Doubt me all you want I’m only who I am…

Testify against me, I might just take a stand.

I can’t predict the future, nor make it go away…
I can’t control tomorrow, so I’ll focus on today

Icarus Revised.

He wondered how it felt, right before his old friend started running towards the edge of the cliff—how the air felt on his face as he jumped and flew for just a moment, before he fell.

He didn’t have many details. He didn’t even know what time of the day it happened. Did he almost touch the sun, then plummet to the earth like a modern day Icarus without the wings? He had been known to fly too close in the past. Did the moonlight kiss his cheek before he vanished into the shadows below?

It was of little consequence; he fell nonetheless—but not without jumping first.

Not without a running start.

Loud.

Sometimes, his thoughts were so loud, they drowned out the stereo. Even on the highway, with windows open and one of his favorite songs blasting at full volume, his brain was still somehow louder. When a song he particularly liked came on, and he realized he missed the whole thing, he would replay it, only to miss it all again—and again. Sometimes he’d play the same song over and over again for his entire drive and never hear it.

But he always managed to come back into it just before it ended.

Crazy Is.

Moments kept getting in the way—He kept getting in the way. His strangely wired, slightly damaged brain kept getting in the way.

So what’s it like to be that crazy?

It’s like a giant tangle of Christmas lights. So many thoughts and contingencies bouncing around simultaneously, creating a white noise.

It’s knowing what the right thing to do is, but somehow doing the opposite—a libertine guilt. It’s a longing that won’t go away. A relentless feeling of dissatisfaction no matter the moment. It’s paralyzing at times.

It had been a year. Well, almost a year. To him, it felt like the blink of an eye; a brief moment that went by in a flash, bloated with every possible moment of splendor and tragedy one man could have.

He was only now able to take a breath, one year later and think about it.

Freakishly Healthy.

He used to fancy himself a writer. It was a very consuming passion, and one he did not take lightly. He even saw a few books published, though, they were self-published, and rather obscure. He romanticized his crazy under the guise of tortured, alcoholic writer. It gave his vices purpose—validation. He drank too much, he smoked too much—he smoked too much. His love affair with bacon was bordering on disturbing, if he ate at all. He abused his body. It was less a temple and more a roadside attraction. Yet somehow, it didn’t really do much to him. Sure, he couldn’t run a marathon or beat a girl scout at arm wrestling, but when he finally got a decent job with good health insurance and went for a physical, his doctor told him he was “freakishly healthy.”

His writing. His art. His self-inflicted curse. It followed him like a shadow, even after he stopped.

It followed so closely, he knew there was no escaping it.

Back.

I suppose I’ve figured out what it is I have to say, and slowly, I’m figuring out how I want to say it. I’m working on a new book called Fondly, a disjointed third-person narrative severely lacking in a chronological order, born out of my Singular Form pieces written here. I’ll post snippets sporadically, if you care at all to read them, starting today.

We’ll return after these messages…

I’m done writing for a while. I’m finished until I can figure out what it is, exactly, I want to say.

To be continued.