Constructive Thoughts

The fog was thick. The night was dark. The lights were reflective shadows. Cars crept out from behind the fog and became two white eyes looking straight at me. There was no light that filled the spaces between the end of my headlights and his two white eyes. Thick fog and thicker darkness consumed all space that night. The streetlights came to view feet from me and were gone in an instant.

As my car slugged along the street, the fog danced in front of my bright headlights. It jumped and danced and swiftly got out of the way. Some fog that could not get out of the way would splatter on my wind shield, like a mosquito, and would accumulate. The fog danced like smoke at the end of a gun or the end of a lit cigarette. It curled along flat surfaces and ran flat on slopes. It twirled and tumbled, danced and dove. It was art, it was poetry, it was danger, it was safety and confusion.

One becomes lost in fog. One dreads of becoming lost in fog. The worst part about it is the confusion. It disorients you, like when you have too many thoughts buzzing in your head and you become droopy and tired and sort of losing hope, and you lose the battle. Everything looks the same wrapped in a layer of fog. That tree looks just like that one; that street looks just like that one, etc.

That is what makes people afraid. When people are disoriented, one becomes overwhelmed with certain emotions one would not normally need to cope with. One therefore has more stress and more dilemma. People become frantic too easily. In this day and age, at least in America, people are so accustomed to having fresh, running water, an unlimited supply of energy and food and anything one would need to sustain life readily available at reasonable prices. Take that away from someone and they lose it. People are afraid of the woods and the dark and the unknown because they know of stories of those who have conquered such elements already and have established more advanced civilization on this continent. The fog makes it worse. Indeed, the fog makes it terribly worse. Take all those things away from someone and put them in the dark wrapped in fog. It’s almost like a dream that you can’t wake up from. The unknown is horrifying to humans and fog drives that fear.

So as my car lazily crept through the thick haze of cloud, and lights were surreal and darkness was emptiness, thoughts raced through my head as the fog delicately jumped, and twirled and somersaulted, fell, rose, shifted, blew and wrapped around anything and everything.

So what we go out? That’s how it’s supposed to be. Living young and wild and free.

Facebook is an evil thing

Sometimes solitude is best

You call me, eyes wet with anticipation. It’s close to midnight now.The phone rings.

Hello?

You tell me stories, you tell me tales, you ask me questions. You tell me your concerns, wants, desires and needs. You tell me that everything was once fine and tolerable, but now it’s not nearly as good. Your voice becomes raspy and wet. I hear you sniff your noise. Breathing is becoming hard for you, isn’t it? I listen to everything you have to say; at least we can both agree that I’m a good listener. Your mood changes. You become angry, you crave retribution. You need. You want. You desire. You don’t give. I listen to you struggle with your words and sentences. My cigarette has become short now. Your heart doesn’t want to say it, your brain needs to say it (you’re fed up) and your mouth is going to say it.

I’m done with you.

I shatter. Unexpected words for an unsuspecting asshole. I take another drag from my hot cigarette and release warm carcinogens and hate into the air. I tell you everything I’ve done wrong - I made it clear to you. I never meant to hate you - that was never in the plans. You tell me it was never in my plans to do anything. You tell me I’m a shithead, a horrible person. A horribly predictable asshole with no respect for himself or anyone around him.

Click.

I drop my cigarette to the floor and lay my foot over it, suppressing the final embers. It’s after midnight now. Now you’re alone, you’ve cut your ties. You lay in bed and soak in your pain and wallow in your own sadness. You’ve got no one to blame, but you tell yourself it’s all my fault. It’s not my fault. It can’t be my fault. That’s where you remind yourself that I’m wrong. I’ve always been wrong, you tell yourself. How could it be so difficult if I was always wrong? Your tears begin to pour from your eyes like a dam that’s been exploded. Teardrops hit your pillowcase and bed sheets with tremendous thuds and loud sounds commonly associated only with war. You try and convince yourself that I wasn’t worth it. You know I was. I was always there for you.

Time passes and you’re still face first in your pillow, wet with tears, mascara and hate. You hear a bird chirp in a tree. You begin to think of me again.

Think of me always, you are the only one who lost in the end.

…where he subsequently spit on the arresting officer resulting in second-degree harassment.

Come on man..

She called me ignorant. That’s the last thing I remember hearing.

I could tell my face was red because it felt like my cheeks were burning up; my ears stung. I threw something. Whatever it was in my hand, I threw across the room. I couldn’t even come up with words for her.

Ignorance is something - no - is the one thing I fear most in the world. I feel there’s a difference between ignorance and stupidity or not knowing, a fine line, but a big difference. I thought of all the harsh words that could come out of my mouth, all of the mean and “ignorant” things I could say about her. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My ears were on fire.

It’s been a few months now since then and I hate to say it, but I wonder how her life is. I wish she wouldn’t have ruined our friendship like that.

She called me ignorant.

We All Envy

“Goodnight, love” he whispered over her shoulder. If the air were cold enough, you could see his words get tangled in her long hair like fish in a net. She felt cold and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Goodnight, love” she whispered into the cold pillow.

Time passed and their breathing synced, as it seems to always do at night, and the air grew warm and welcoming around them. She slipped quickly into a deep sleep, fearing nothing as his arms shielded her from life’s troubles. She dreamt of silly things, things yet to happen and unreal things. Things she’s made up in her mind and her heart.

He however, could not find sleep. Each night was a battle for him. He traced the outline of her shoulder with the tip of his finger, and with aid from the moonlight creeping through the window panes, he was able to see goosebumps rise from under her skin. He pondered what she could be dreaming of. Probably silly things, he told himself. His left arm had gone numb, and like he had done so skillfully most other nights, he slipped his useless arm from under her and got out of the bed. He moved cautiously and she gave an unconscious groan of disapproval as her backside suddenly became warmer. He tucked her in.

He walked slowly around the house, observing the things the moonlight touched and the things it didn’t. He reached the kitchen and moved to the refrigerator. His arm was still numb, but as he pulled open the stainless-steel door, his body was overcome with overpowering artificial light that blasted off of the plastic wrappers and glass bottles that were contained behind the door. He initially started to jump back, but merely put his hand in front of his bloodshot eyes and let them readjust before pondering his choices. As usual, he found nothing appealing to him at 1:13am and shut the door. The darkness was more than before, he thought, but he let his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light and continued on his routine. He opened the drawer across from the stove, reached in for his cigarettes and his lighter, took one from the pack and lit it in the kitchen despite her dislike of smoking indoors. He nonchalantly moved to the back door which he slid open with the ever-present squeak of the track under the door and stepped into the cool night.

The moon was bright and full. The sky was empty of clouds and contained few stars that night; the moon flooded out all other light in the sky. He smoked his cigarette, and he enjoyed it. He sat down on the back steps of his porch and put his head on his knees. He thought.

His cigarette burned quick and bright, like a small torch in a dark night. He put it out in one of his mother’s old empty pots she once used for her flowers. It landed in the runoff at the bottom with a small hiss of distaste and the smoke ceased to flow from its lit end. He cracked his neck. His feet were bare. His chest was bare. Somewhere down the street a dog barked. The waves were big today; he could hear them crash upon the shore like bullet through flesh. They were loud and powerful.

He was angry. Angry again at the world. He blamed everyone else for his sleeplessness. He resented everyone that could be comfortably snug in their beds, sleeping soundly with their wives or girlfriends or fiancées or even those sleeping alone tonight he envied because he could not find sleep. He struggled every night. He battled thoughts in his head, emotions he could not deal with, things he should’ve done in the past, people he hated (though hate is a strong word and he tended to avoid using such a word) and people he loved. The thoughts would buzz around in his head with the same force of the ocean waves crashing relentlessly down on the wet sand.

The sliding glass door cautiously slid open.

“Babe” was all she said. The door did not close again. His back was to her. Again, he gazed up at the moonlight, stood up, went inside and followed her to bed. Again, he tucked his left arm under her and the pillow and wrapped his right arm around her, holding her tight. He traced the silhouette of her shoulder until she fell asleep.

He however, could not find sleep.

She never slept so soundly than she did with his breath on her neck.

What soft words speaks the Woodpecker. Unnatural sounds. Soothing sounds. Disturbing sounds.

He floats from tree to tree, branch to branch and slowly creeps his way to the tree’s trunk, its core, smashing his sharp yet delicate beak against the wooden surface, and flies away.

#Getthefuckoutmyface