A Half Start

Here's a story which ought to be true, taken from a party which may have happened. The question was posed:

"Why am I having such trouble navigating this conversation with you?"
"Because we just don't understand each other."
"Do you know someone who tries too hard to find those dear friendships?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. I do too."
"Staying inside isn't so bad, is it?"
"No, not at all. Just don't mistake that feeling for loneliness."

From a Mother and Father to Our Only Son

If these indeed be our parting words, then let us speak them through. We love you. We know not fully how or why, but we love you truly.

We seek the world for you, though we cannot bring it to you. Watching you grow, we see you stumbling and grasping, your early frustrations and your daily enthusiasm. We must view this all from a certain spot removed, for we cannot interfere too greatly in the process you have begun. We wish to lead you on, but it is you who must take the steps. As much as we love, and as much as we care, these are your choices.

We must speak our feelings truly, but we refrain from getting you caught in desires that are ours, not yours.

We are sad sometimes, and know not why, just like you. Your growing up and out, while beautiful, reminds us of the limits of our roles. You are already half gone from us, it seems. But from afar, and often up close, we can see how lovely you have made our lives.

Each moment special. Sometimes relived in dreamscapes. Our sorrow for your leaving us is short lived. We are glad to know this.

Now you go out and do as you are. We look at photographs and see ourselves in you. But there are elements far beyond what we see of you in ourselves. These are your mysteries, just as we have our own.

Perhaps there is more to come.

Let our words, put together, spell "thanks", and may our hearts share joy as they can.

My Best Friend.

With rasping breath and dragging feet, my best friend approaches. He smiles so broadly, but as he does, I cringe to see it. His teeth are rotten, glowing yellow and bright in dark, damp surroundings. And ever closer does he come. Green arm lifted overhead, he waves as if he had a noodle attached at the shoulder.

And then he defecates right there on the spot. 20 feet from me. He does not stop. He is too excited to see me. He keeps walking, smiling and waving. Ever closer does he come.

His name is Samuel H. Glendon. But what is he thinking? His eyes dance madly in their sockets, grasping at some trace of a maligned thought before realizing another one, and then thrusting them at that. That is what I imagine is happening. He walks and he limps and now I smell his breath.

He is wearing a crown for some reason. It is bent and nearly broken. I don't wish to know why he wears it, I simply want to leave. I cannot stand his stench. Cheese that was laid to rot 500 years ago, mixed with cattle dung might not adequately illustrate the aroma.

I mouth, "Stop! Go away!" but my voice box projects, "Come here! Come closer! We will spend the day together!"

I cannot move. I am rooted to the ground. His face, first a pale white, turns green. Slowly. The green flows from within him and begins to collect at his nose, and then spreads outward to the rest of his face. As if the ooze in his body directs itself towards me.

I am in a crowd! Why does no one take notice? He stops. One whole foot in front of me. I begin to retch, but as I do, my mouth is frozen shut, so the vomit must only leak from my nose and some small gaps in the sides of my mouth. He presses his nose against mine. Soon enough I feel my back on the ground. And he is on top of me. He opens his mouth and my vision quickly blurs, then fades away. Before I lose all consciousness, I sense his tongue lick my cheek, and then feel his teeth sinking in.

Trade Paper Song

A look to the right and I see you down. You take a sniff of the air and you brush it outta your nose. Pretending in the next phrase to say that it don't stink so bad no more. That's how I know you are and that's what sends me reelin'. It wouldn't mean nothin' if times were different and ways weren't tight. But I'd still be lookin' back and back. There's still no way of knowin'.

To share what is not ours

There is a small reward for dying today. Please pardon the morbidity of such an offer. It is in no effort to clear the earth of citizens. No. In fact, we wish you would populate more fully. But spread out. You live too closely. Your closet leads to anothers' bedroom. We wish you all the luck in the world.

No, the reward for dying is only for those who pass of natural causes. We, who divy the reward, know exactly the circumstances around your leaving. We see honesty in all its colors. Dishonesty we abhor.

We do not look to the day and wonder who will die. We have other things to do. The reward is simply there. Not for those who seek it, but for those who, stumbling, in one way or another, happen to find their way to us.

Would you like to know the reward?

We will throw you a curious glance. That is not the reward. The reward comes after the glance, but the glance itself is worth a thousand lifetimes. We are the ones who bear the look. The effect on each is multivarious and transformative. You wonder who you are and realize it in abstract terms. Such sure knowing, yet it is slightly out of language's grasp. It is white space. It is singular knowing in a dimensional coating.

The water runs deep, and we await.

In a matter of waking

And when you speak, in long sentences or in short, let them be from the might you've exerted along the way. Let them be shameful or ordinary, but at least claim them as yours, so that perhaps one day our perspectives might meet in some small way, and then I shall sayeth, "Ah ha! I might know what it was like to go through that, for I have fought similarly."

In style or in type, we have many things to write. And many things to think and say. And many things come right this way. They come big and small. They come without call. They come bent on a dare, they come face first to stare. They come try as they might. They come to stir up a fight. They come to distract and misgive. They come to let the world in a little closer.

They come to forbid the rain. They come because no one else dared. They come because they have been tested well. They come because nothing else will do.

They come because they are proud, battle tested and strong. They come because they can save us one second in a million years and know they've done well. They come because we need inspiration. We need friction. We need a match to light up the dark. We need to know ourselves. There is so much and we have this chance to explore.

We have come because we do not long to be soldiers anymore. We come because the space between knowing and forgetting has become so small. We come because we are on the edge of something entirely different. We come because the wind does not any longer hamper our progress.

We come because it just seems right.

Crafting

There's something about the account of an imagined happening from the perspective of the only person telling it. We are engaged in an invisible process.

Post dated material

I am the son of the transistor radio. I have not come from far or near, but from between. And I seek knowledge. All that I know is not false, but cannot be counted true. How long am I here? I don't know the answer to that. Events are too large to grasp, so we become aimless in them. What do we do? We quietly become more curious.