Dreamland

We are standing in the kitchen as if we had done so a thousand other nights. The weather is cool and a slight breeze permeates the air. My parents are here this time. I think it odd at first, to have you and them together, but the more I think, the more natural it seems.

I complain about things. You listen. Like you always do. Listening has always been something you do well. You know just the right thing to say during each pause. Ten measures of music followed by one measure of rest. Other nights,
we exchange roles, although the song is the same. Tonight, I am the
music, you are my rest.

You are in my room as I enter. I sit down on the bed. You then offer me help to the problems I had mentioned earlier. Help that I never expected… but perhaps should have.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “Really, it’s unnecessary.”

“But I want to. I care about you and I want to help,”

I slowly get up from the bed. I walk over towards you and wrap my arms around you. Your embrace always soothes away the most wearisome of days, but today it is has a feeling like I never felt before. I smile. We hold one another as if the world is ending.

“I wish this could last forever,” you whisper in my ear.

We hold each other tighter. I can imagine myself in no better place than in your sweet embrace. We then stand here, silently, gazing into each other’s eyes. Your cute smile withers away all my worries.

“I can tell you’re a really great guy.”

I squeeze you tighter as the words fall out of your mouth. My heart beats faster. My mind races in every direction.

I then awake from this mockery of reality to find myself alone. I rollover in bed and clutch my pillow. For now this will have to do.

Chronology of Death

Chronology of Death

8pm: Why didn’t you call? You never call. The phone sits silently. I stare at it for a minute. No one ever calls.

My eye twitches as I converge into tears.

9pm: Stay… or go? I debate that persistent voice that only I can hear. It doesn’t matter. In the end, nothing ever really matters.

Voice (death): No one cares. Go. Have fun. He hasn’t called; he doesn’t care.

Me: Should I really? He’s just busy. He’ll call. He cares. (I always tell myself that.)

Voice (death): Don’t be a pussy. Have some balls for once. Have fun tonight and do what makes you feel good.

I leave in reckless abandonment all that I know to be right as I enter the dimly lit kitchen.

10pm: You are always here for me. I mix a concoction of juice and liquor. No matter what, I can always count on you. I listen to each tick. I await the signal of the clock to indicate the time has arrived for me to go. Death is imminent, although I don’t quite feel it yet.

10 15pm: I’ve half finished my god awful drink and hesitantly light a cigarette. This is not the first cigarette I’ve smoked since I quit. Why don’t you ever call me? If you would ever show me you care then I wouldn’t need such vices in my life. I always qualified my behavior. In that way, it isn’t my fault. It never is my fault. Addiction knows no rationality. I put the cigarette out after only being half smoked. It’s ok to smoke if you only smoke half of it. I live my life basing it on contradictions such as these.

10 30pm: Shit. I nearly lose my balance as I lean on the back two legs of my chair. My glass is still half empty. I had filled it to the top a few minutes earlier. If I never drink a full glass then I’m not really drinking that much. I take a sip.

11pm: Call me, damn it. I just want to hear your voice is all. I just want to know you’re thinking of me. Call me, damn it. The alcohol is clearly having it’s affect on me. I’m going. You don’t give a damn about me so I’ll show you.

I stagger out the door.

Midnight: Fucking asshole. I yell at the bus as it races past me without hesitation. I stand here, alone and helpless, thinking the world has forgotten me. He still hasn’t called. I still miss him terribly. Why do I go on living in a world as uncaring as this? I speak to the pigeons as if they care to hear my troubles. Deep down I desire death, when death is not around. Deep down I desire death, when death is no where to be found. I can still wait half an hour longer. You’ll keep me company, right? The pigeons coo in unison.

1am: $5? Sure. I would have spent any amount to gain entry into this den of decadence and iniquity. The lights are strobing; the music is pounding. People sway together as they are all lumped into a sea perpetual rhythm. Death is imminent, although I don’t quite feel it yet.

Are you sleeping? I text him this one and only time, partly to ease my conscience and partly out of loneliness. He doesn’t respond. My mind becomes set in thinking he hates me. My mind becomes set in thinking I’m alone. I walk from the front of the bar to the back. I smile at some, wink at others. Stupid faggots… why don’t they notice me? I convince myself that I just need another drink. I need to free myself from the shackles of shyness.

2am: Gin and tonic, please. The bartender stares at me for a minute. I can tell he knows I’ve had one too many drinks yet still he pours. I glance down at my phone. Asshole. No… no, not you. It’s… my boyfr-…oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter. He walks away. I stumble backwards.

4am: I venture out into uncharted waters this lonely god-forsaken night, jumping over water puddles, letting the curls of my hair mop up the drops of rainwater hitting my blushed face, all without the protection of the thin fabric of that small umbrella. It’s liberating. I’m free. And most importantly of all, it’s fun. At this moment, nothing else matters. At this moment, it is pure fun.

9 am: I awake with a headache, nauseas, and confused. What the fuck did I do? Lying there beside the bed, just as it had the night before and the night before that is a small dresser with a shiny brass handle. My eyes are still sleepy. “Do you want some juice?” He was in the other room when he asked. He only asked to be polite. And I imagine he doesn’t even have any juice.

I glance down at the dresser again. No thanks, I’m not thirsty. I could still taste the remnants of the half juice half gin from the night before. Again, I glance down. There on that shiny brass handle I can see my name inscribed, the contents of which I know without even opening.

I reach for door two or door three… or four… or five, as if playing a 70s game show. I groggily realize the full implications of my actions. There is no other door, there is no alternative, no choice. My final destination has been chosen already, chosen by me and that always half empty concoction of mistakes. I slowly pull open that dresser drawer of death. My fingers crawl there way to that small white bottle. My lips form the letters of the word that will forever define the life sentence placed upon me. Oh God, why me?

Oh fuck,

oh FUCK,

OH FUCK.

I scream aloud yet no one hears. I clutch that big overstuffed pillow as if it is a life preserver, as if it is my small white bottle.

On second thought, I think I will have that glass of juice. I speak to him calmly. I speak to him as if the sky were the bluest of blue, as if songbirds perpetually sing, as if the grass is always green, and the streets are lined with pearls. I stand there, my skin a façade, my heart a racehorse, my stomach a punching bag. Juice… you asked me if I wanted a glass of juice earlier… may I have some?

Untitled

I walk in through a door not made of wood. I return. I had traveled here once before now returning again to the empty, soul depriving nourishment my body so craves. It is oddly familiar yet entirely new. There are no walls, no ceiling or floor. I find the perimeters to be only fenced off by the horizons. I enter into a land where conversations lined with lust-filled desires await. I come with the anticipation of the end of something great…and so, I prepare myself. I don the battle gear of lessons learned, of hopes lost, of desires unfulfilled.

I dip a toe in the flesh lined pool only to feel the cold sting of each cold-hearted gesture. I pause. I walk. To and fro, I go from one to the next as if sifting through a file cabinet of years passed. I shred the old out-dated dusty files, pass over the newly acquired files, put some aside to look over later. I glance at some, read others over carefully.

“It must be here somewhere,” I say aloud just needing to hear the voice of a sound mind.

In the craziness of this world I often find myself needing to hear the voice of a man….and so I speak. I ramble on and on while browsing through the fruit section, discuss the weather while waiting for a bus, shout gestures in disgust of war while maintaining the imbalance of life. In each insipid conversation spewing from these lips, each banal remark emanating from this mind, I know that there is so much more out there for me to discover.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Waz up?”

Each salutation becomes increasingly desperate and pathetic as I journey onward. But I continue on this path lined not with flowers but with disappointments. Each disappointment has, to my surprise, proven to be a blessing in disguise. As unpoetic as it may be, as odd as it may sound, through the despondency of it all I have become a livelier being. I still have hope and it is that hope that drives me forward. It is that hope of something new, of something great, of something never before felt that propels me into this land of emptiness where words are meaningless and selfish flattery abound.

The ground is lined with pebbles and as I shuffle my feet I watch them shoot out in all directions. I look at each pebble, each one being unique and beautiful in its own way but there is one that stands out from the rest. I slowly stoop down to gaze at this pebble that magnanimously embodies the destination this soul seeks. The sun radiates ever so gently upon it so that when I reach to touch, sensations of warmth envelop my entire being. A calmness overcomes this tired body of mine and for once in my life I can say I feel at peace.