Tag Archives: prose

Empty Philosophy, Useless Rhetoric

We were birthed from Strife, and Love followed us into a cycle of never-end; the coming together, the pulling apart, these are the seasons of infinity.

For if the very nature of Strife and Love, existing in every part of the Cosmos, is infinite, then is not everything created within the infinite cycle forever bound within its seasons and without the ability to be separate or destroyed?

Therefore if I stand like a volcano who gives off smoke as a signal of natural strife, am I not still subject to the season of rest, the love that must follow? For each season passes and gives balance to the precedent set before it.



Prose: The Age of False Advertising

Often when I see the sky, a really piercingly beautiful sky, I think to myself that such a scene belongs in a painting. I find this very telling about the human nature, or perhaps only my nature. When I see something too beautiful to describe, my mind can only process it as being fake or synthetic. A copy, even. Surely not the prototype. Reality is ugly, so anything I perceive to be beautiful is often mistaken to be a charade. It’s the cause for much of the failings of my faith. To think of a G-d so beautiful, so loving, so merciful and giving, to behold him in the framework of my mind even for a second brings me to the logical conclusion that He is not real, and loveliness on such a grand scale is not possible.

But the G-d who created the stars and the skies, every sunset and every natural landscape is a G-d whose beauty surpasses all of these things. I believe that.

Journal Entry: Hardships and Survival

I guess to say what I want to say, and really have anyone understand why I’m saying it, I have to provide some background information.

On September 2, an extremely close friend of mine told me we couldn’t talk anymore. His reasons were vague and frustrated me. He asserted that I need to be focusing on myself and this was best for me. I was more than a little devastated about it, but I got through it. Sort of.

On September 5, I returned to school for the first time in three years. On this day, I had a massive panic attack for the first forty minutes of class. I could not concentrate on what my professor was saying, and I so dearly wanted to run out.  Despite the fear running through my entire body, I stayed in my seat, fidgeting with a red face and a pair of sweaty hands. I got through it. Sort of.

On September 8, I found out a childhood friend of mine, someone who I’ve known since I was eleven, and whose family has been considered an extension of my family since I was three, was in a coma and had fractured his brain stem in an accident. I fell to pieces when I found out and as I held his hand in the ICU of Strong Hospital, praying for a miracle to no avail, a part of me died. I watched my faith fall useless on his near-lifeless body, but I kept some fashion of hope and I got through it. Sort of.

On September 9 around 11am, I was on my way out to visit Orry again in the hospital, when I was informed that he had just passed at 10:20. I sat in the garage, chain smoking, staring at the blank tv screen like a zombie. I could cry, but I couldn’t feel it, not in my heart, just in my head. I could keep a strong face, but I couldn’t feel that strength in my heart, just in my head, but I went to that church tonight, I broke down before God in the middle of song. I went home and deleted my facebook.  I got through it. Sort of.

On September 10, I went to class and lived like nothing had ever happened to me. I didn’t have any panic attacks.

On September 11, I found out my best friend’s father passed away from a stroke. He was a man who I admired, idolized even. He was close to me, made me comfortable and at peace in his presence, and always made me smile with his dry, quick wit. I freaked out. I had known he was sick with an infection in his lungs, and I had been praying for him, but it did not occur to me that he wouldn’t get better and it certainly didn’t ever cross my mind that something else would kill him. He has survived cancer. He is a strong, hard-working man who loves his family with the most obvious kind of love. My heart broke for him, for me, and for my friend, his child. I survived, sort of.

On September 12, I attended church, again. The sermon didn’t relate to me, so I thought I could keep it together, but every familiar stranger in that place that put their arms around me and embraced me in genuine compassion made me melt into a pile of grief, almost instantly. I got through it, sort of.

On September 13, I attended Orry’s funeral/memorial. I saw every single person I could’ve lived with never having seen again. I felt alone in the masses, and didn’t find comfort at the end of my booze-filled glasses. I did not feel Orry in that place, but I saw Love in every embrace.

When I left, I visited my friend whose father passed away. I had spent every moment until then, feeling like a crappy friend because I hadn’t seen him yet, hadn’t consoled him. I hugged his mom tightly when I saw her, which I’ve never done and I sat up late, giving comfort in the only ways I know how. I didn’t sleep until Saturday.

These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life, and yet, I sit here now, almost untouched by it all. The worst part of all of this was seeing so many people I loved, suffering and not  being able to do anything about it, not having any word of wisdom or encouragement for them. I was utterly useless for other people. Not to mention, it was a hollow kind of loss. The pain in your chest that keeps you up at night. I was a weeping mess when I started to map out all the dates and events, but now, I don’t know what to think. I had a few moments of clarity in the midst of all the devastation and saw that it’s all for Love. It’s all for freedom. There’s a method in the madness and a purpose for the pain. Even if the methods don’t make any sense to me and the purposes might seem too small and insignificant for such horrible effects, I trust that this is going somewhere good. I don’t believe in happy endings, but I believe that every conflict has a resolution and reaching it is only a matter of that imaginary thing we call, time.

Sloppy, Unfinished Poetry: As If

She was trapped with the sounds
of the last song reverberating
from hair to hair inside
the outer part of her ear

and she was twirling on her unmoving chair,
nervously, looking around at all the folks
of her foolish generation,
wondering why they all hide,
incessantly, behind the faces
of new technology

as if a voice, formally genuine,
could crush the air that sustains them,
as if there was nothing, but darkness
surrounding around their light,
only things with which to stain them.

Reminiscent Prose: A Plane Ride to Florida.

I took a plane down south. Of course, I had many times before, but this time was different. In times past, I had been a rolling stone of a child whose mind was shifted and clouded by dreams, fantasies, wonders, questions and zeal for the moments. I lacked or perhaps ignored the cognitive ability to see what was going on before me whilst caught up in the fascination of my own mind. On this trip, though, I was on the way to coming into my own. I had attained some level of consciousness, although, it could be argued I was less conscious in the sense that I was more acutely aware of that which is deemed irrelevant by the backbone, heart and brain of nature, of existence, and especially, of God.

I was sitting next to one of my only friends, at that age. I didn’t have the window seat. I don’t know this to be a fact, but I know who I was back then, and even though I really wanted the window seat, I would’ve eagerly given it up to please a friend. At age thirteen, I would’ve sold blood to attain the assurance of a lasting friendship. I hadn’t learned, yet, that you can’t buy loyalty. That’s not to imply that this friend wasn’t loyal, for she surely was, for as long as she could be.

If I was nervous at all during that plane ride, I don’t remember it. As far as I know, I’ve never been nervous on a plane before, yet for some reason, I imagine I would be, now. I guess you could say this particular plane ride was the last peaceful air transit I’ll probably ever have. I was young enough to know of 9/11, but not have its effects really get under my skin and touch my heart as it does now. I was at the age where we made terrorist jokes and wondered at why anyone would want to hurt Americans – So naive. I wish I had spent less time, distracting myself with movies, books and hand held video games during that plane ride and more time engaging those around me. Not that I’d have anything of substance to say, but, surely, there would’ve been something of substance to hear, to remember, to learn from. That’s what I regret most about my youth and my teenage years, even now; I wish I had paid more attention to what life could teach me. I made mistakes, I saw what went wrong, what caused it all, and never really consecrated those things in my mind or heart.

I know a lot of time has passed since I boarded that plane to Florida, but in a lot of ways, I still feel like the same person, and therein, I believe, lies the only legitimate reason for sorrow. Wisdom is the application of life’s accumulated, practical knowledge, and a fool has no value… in this life or the next.

Poetry: Preface to Murder

The dishes are left soiled in the sink,
Growing unfriendly friends of mold and stink
The table, not set and the living room, unkempt,
These and more, roots of my contempt.

Marriage introduced a new kind of rescue,
One needed from my wife and only son,
Originally, home was strictly for refuge;
Yes, home was made for fun.

But she pushes and tests me til I have no wits left,
She’s helping me on in this conclusion,
And what did she expect?

She knows her power, bites back her smile
When she withholds from me, sweet release,
Not to mention, the child, my son,
Constructs in me, an untamed beast.

I dream of places, anywhere they’re not
I’ve thought maybe I could kill them,
Buy a gun, develop a good shot.

Perhaps I’d show them more mercy,
Perhaps I’d kill soft and tenderly,
They are my family, after all,
No need to be surly.

But I know it’s only a matter of rage and time
Before these thoughts, even fantasies
Become reality,

maybe mine.



*This is fictional writing. I am not married, I don’t have a son, and certainly, I have no intention to murder.

Betrayal: The Veil’s Purpose

It’s in betrayal and betrayal only, that everything I am, everything I’ve worked to become, and in every way I’ve grown ceases to matter, or in some cases, exist.

When the veil, the one that separates the truth from the image and the past from the present, is broken, it splits in two, and the world suddenly has access to something no one was ever meant to. Something so frightening, so deeply decadent, so void of hope and light, no man may enter through its gates. No man will be seen singing praises of a woman’s beauty, gentleness or love. The broken veil peels back every layer of comfort, hope, sanity, logic, reason, healing, and peace from my heart; It reveals what were once scars, but are now massive wounds of infected flesh, a darkness with a fist, and reigning chaos. The vision, once observed, is the kind that stays in the back of your head for eternity, the image you can’t quite shake from behind your eyelids while lying in bed at night. It is the sense of dread you spend your whole life running from. From this view, it would appear that my heart isn’t capable of love, or perhaps, loved itself to shreds.

Betrayal is familiar to me more so than anything else. I can spot a deceptive lover years before they even commit the act, and still, even with my trained eyes, the shock is subsonic every time. It never ends, that collapsing feeling. The first time I was betrayed by a man was the first time I knew with all my heart that I had a soul. I could feel her, or it, inside me, falling through every layer of expectation, every fluffy floor of preconception, ideal and imagination, and finally, crashing onto the floor boards of reality like a train smacking against the first explosion of a five-stage bomb.

Betrayal is one of those things I’m not afraid to be overly dramatic with. It’s one of the few topics I don’t think can be exaggerated, because if you’ve ever felt the piercing and simultaneously hallowing effects of it, you know there are no words for it. You know there are no standards capable of measuring it. The only thing that sharpens or dulls the pain is the measure by which you loved that person, and we don’t get to choose how much we love them at the time they betray us, we don’t get to choose which of our loved ones or mere acquaintances deliver the blows.

If received in large increments over a short period of time, it does get easier to handle. Sometimes it takes less time to recover from, if you’re conditioned to it. But there’s no glory in being able to stand it, because oftentimes, the more you can stand it, the less you have of yourself to give.

I tell you this, I was once a great city, but a tsunami’s waves soon took everything from my every coast, mountain and valley, leaving nothing, not a trace of civilization in its aftermath. Betrayal either takes from you or gives you something no one wants and no one deserves and no one can bear. Only God can heal these wounds in the appointed time. I will, like Abraham, hope against hope, that I may, someday soon, be able by God and permitted by myself, to trust again.