The Wanting

How many words can be written about it, this quiet restlessness that sits in your chest and aches with every breath?

You’ve tried to talk softly to it. You’ve tried to encourage it’s efforts and quiet it’s soft screams.

You’ve left for weeks at a time just to escape it but it’s always there riding with you in the front seat, fiddling with the window button, fixing the rearview pointing out things behind you that you thought you’d left behind.

You’ve gone to the woods, to stare up at the trees that envelope you, you pray for fog to make the feeling go away or at least to match the color of it.

It stays with you and asks why, over and over and over like some child and you’ve told it just be quiet, you don’t how many times.

As much as you try to ignore it, it’s with you every morning in the soft light and at this point it’s more of a companion than anyone you’ve ever met.

It’s the one thing that’s stayed with you over the years. It’s the thing that makes your eyes heavy, that makes you try to make the things that you want, that calls out to you as you try to find the dark at night.

It’s the wanting, it’s the desire for the things you’ve never had, for the comfort of being alone and for a girl to rest her head on your chest.

You carry on though.

You wake up every morning not because you have to but because it’s what you do.

You live every day waiting for the chance to see the land of dreams again to grab a hold of something there that has eluded you in the normal light of day.

It sounds sad, but it’s better than that. It’s quiet and it’s comforting, sometimes it’s cold but it’s fine because you prefer the cold. If you could live somewhere without the sun beating down on the back of your neck, that would be fine.

It’s a friend more than anything now. That longing for something you aren’t sure you want anyway. 

Really, is there any other way?

The Tattooed Girl Who Works at the Minister’s Coffee Shop

She was covered in tattoos, head to toe. There was even one of a storm trooper helmet that had the words in script surrounding it, “Daddy’s little trooper.”

I can remember the day she was buying cheap beer for a couple of guys from Denver that were coming to fix her car, she didn’t have her gauges in and the skin on her ear lobes just hung. No comment. I don’t know why I was so fixated on that, not that hanging earlobes is bad or anything but it was something I didn’t have the regular pleasure of seeing everyday, it was bare, and vulnerable as it to say “fuck you for staring,” I noticed though, and I didn’t say anything.

She spoke softly. Her voice was calm, nothing like the tattoos would have suggested.

It’s not like I was in love with her either, it wasn’t a crush, it was just this thing where I wanted to see her again. I’m not clear on whether it was the potential of friendship or something else entirely. I just wanted to see her again before I left.

The day I noticed her earlobes was the same day I drove her home, or to a friend’s house, I don’t know. Her car, a car she had purchased a month before with 170,000 miles on it had died and she was walking across town. I was sitting outside the other coffee shop and she said “Whassup man?” to me before I could notice her coming. As I flicked my cigarette and looked up the flint in my brain caught and sparked and I recognized the face. That face was the one that had served me coffee at the coffee shop/gift store on the other side of town. It was run by a minister. I rarely went there anymore but when I did, she was there. We got to talking though, and she told me things that were boring and then I offered to give her a ride because I’m a nice guy.  

That face though, and the tattoos and the tone of her voice made something click.

The drive to her house was fine enough but for some reason I was so distracted I was afraid I would get into an accident. I was nervous too, my voice did that thing where sometimes it’s hard to get the right words out and sometimes you mess them up and you’re paranoid that they can hear you fucking up your talking. I couldn’t relax for like a half hour after that.

Anyway, I went back today, not specifically to see her, but because I wanted to sit on the patio and smoke.

She was there and she told me about some problem with her apartment that I could only hear snippets of over the sound of the coffee grinder. I responded, as I figured was probably customary without hearing what she said, by shaking my head and saying “That’s bullshit.” I went outside then and smoked, eating my sandwich, drinking my coffee and then I smoked some more.

An hour probably passed by the time I decided I wanted to leave so I gathered my trash and instead of throwing it in the bin outside I went back inside, threw it out and then stood by the counter waiting for her to look up. She asked, “You out?” I said, “Yeah, this is probably the last time I’m gonna come here too.” Then I did this thing with my eyebrows as if to imply some unnamed ritual and she said “Damn, well let me give you my number.” 

Longing for Fall

There’s a word for it but I don’t know it.

I know there has to be a word for it but maybe it only exists as an offshoot of some obscure Scandinavian descriptor.

It’s what I live for though and I haven’t seen enough of it lately.

I’m talking about the quiet in the crisp cool morning air of early winter.

A slight light pouring over things from the sun that hasn’t yet risen, maybe things are even still black and white, devoid of the color that day brings.

To be alone in that air though, to feel the slack of your pants across your legs and the itchy warmth of the giant wool socks that you don because the air is harsher to your toes than it is to your face.

I need it back. We’re smack-dab in the middle of the heat season, the hard summer where the sun beats down and strikes you with a fervor as if it has something to prove. As if it’s saying, “motherfucker, feel me, know me, hate me.”

I hate wearing shorts and I hate wearing a t-shirt because there’s something about exposing your skin that feels vulnerable, like you’re without the armor of a layer of cloth as if that’s armor at all, but you’re exposed, you feel that, you know at any moment the crushing weight of existence could come flying at you and strike you down because you’re not wearing pants and the default hoodie that shields you not only from the glares of the world but also the cold.

I hate summer.

Speak to me about the odes of wool, of crisp air, of red leaves surrendering their fight and falling to the ground defeated. Hell, even speak to me about pumpkin spice lattes and football, at the very least, those clichés signal the start of quiet, of cool, of dark and that’s where I live, in the neverending fall.

Drunken words

It comes on fierce like the wind over the mountains flowing down into the valleys with a magnificence that sends the lesser among us back into our caves to hide for the fear of god.

It’s quiet too like the sound of the blood flowing through your ears in the middle of the night.

This is life.

This is the eponymous antiquity of being.

We are here for a few minutes and then we find that darkness that has always had us save for a brief few moments in between birth and death.

You wonder things, you see the things you wonder about and then you retreat back home to the air conditioning and the comfort of a couch so worn in that on long nights you can’t tell if you’re sleeping or just lying down.

Here we are though, talking the to the world, talking to our problems, working them out the best we can through a series of fits and starts, then, when we look back on it all, we realize it was just an exercise in futility.

What use is there for us other than to make an impact on something that has no marks, not from you, not from anyone.

We look at the whole, the all encompassing enormity of it all and we realize we are nothing but an ant scurrying it’s way across the forest floor in search of a piece of that promise that god made to every living creature.

I think about these things from time to time, trying to keep my mind off other things, things that hold nothing but sadness.

Some would say I’m lost but I know I’m in control of every capacity that’s possible, every small movement, every small success, I know what I am and how I work and I’m just waiting for the light to go off in the head of that other person, that person that calls me out on my shit and puts their hand on my back when my eyebrows furrow.

They can see that, they know sadness when they see it and they either have to look away or come to my rescue, and it’s the people that put themselves second when they see a sobbing girl sitting on the lawn of the church and come offer a word or a dollar whichever feels the most appropriate.

It’s those people that you have to watch out for and hook when the opportunity is right if you want to climb out of this endless inescapable hole.

I need a smile when I wake up and a few kind words when I go to sleep.

I need that sweet face to look at me in the depths of the fog to tell me I’m ok and I don’t have it.

Right now all I have is my feet which keep me wandering, keep me moving so that I can search the corners and the shadows for that friendly face.

That face that says, I love you and in doing so melts the burden from your shoulders and wipes the tears from your eyes.

I need that face but no matter what I try, it won’t look at me. 


It’s this thing where you go through your day and you do the motions, you execute the program of life and you do the things because you do the things.

There was a reason you did the things you do way back when, but the reason has disintegrated throughout the years and now it’s just automatic.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but there’s that whisper inside of you that says things you don’t want to hear.

It’s quiet most of the time but there are nights when it screams and you just wish it would go to sleep so the rest of you can relax.

You think about things sometimes, you think about how easy it would be but you never act on it because it’s not like you’re depressed, it’s not like you want to do it, but you think you could if you had to, it wouldn’t be that hard.

You think about why people seem to have forgotten about you, nobody asks how you are anymore, nobody reaches out.

You could put a cry for help on facebook or something but that would be weird and you don’t want to worry people, you just wish someone, anyone would send you a message when you’re walking through the fog and ask how you are.

You think about love, you think about how there are times you came close but it scared you and so you ran away.

You think maybe there’s something off about you to be so comfortable but also uncomfortable with being alone.

Sure you have regrets, and you think about how you could text her and say, “Can we give it another try?” but then you remember that you ended it for a reason although you’re unsure about what that reason was.

These long hours of night stretch on much slower than the minutes of the day.

The music is slow and the friends are gone and you’re there, alone, in the house and you’re just there.

Finally, you surrender to sleep and in the morning things are ok again, but sometimes they’re not. 


Painless ways to kill yourself.

i. There is no painless way to kill yourself, someone, somewhere, will feel the pain.

ii. The internet says, “sleeping pills, you will fall asleep and never wake up! You won’t feel a thing!” When that is a lie, your stomach will turn to fire and your throat will fill with the taste of your own stomach acid. You will drown in your own spit. That isn’t even the worst party, it’s when your mother comes home from work. She will walk through the door, and call out your name. She will call and call and there will be no response, maybe you’re in the shower? Maybe you’re asleep? She will walk up the stairs, knock on your door to receive no answer. When she walks in she will see the lifeless body of her baby girl, lying on the floor. Her heart will stop but she will run to you with shaky knees, touching your face that is now still and cold. Her body will be on fire, and her throat will begin to tighten, the sharp pains in her chest will feel like knives in the heart. That image will kill her more than her own death, it will haunt her living years each night. She will no longer be alive, but just as dead as you are now.

iii. Years ago, your father showed you the gun safe he kept in the house in case of emergencies, you knew the pass code, you knew how to shoot and loud, at least you had an idea. They say a bullet to the brain will do the job.. So one night, when your father is fast asleep, you will be down the hallway staring down the mouth of a gun.
One, two, three..
Your father’s heart will jump and his body will follow, the first thing he thinks of is you. He will scream your name and run down the hallway and bang on your door. It’s locked. His knees begin to feel weak as he bruises his body trying to knock down the door, the first sight he see’s in blood splattered on the wall. At that moment his breath began to stop, and his eyes wandered to yours. Still open, but no more life inside your shell. He will drop to his hands and knees and scream why, why, why. There will never be a day he won’t hate himself, for keeping a gun in the house, for not making you happy, for not knowing. He will live a life without a son, live a life with an empty space. Live a life of hurt, and hatred for himself.

iv. You may think that when you’re dead and gone you will not be hurting anyone. You may think when you slide a blade across your wrist, you’re only hurting yourself. Yet I have learned that is not true, it’s not. The person who will find your body, the one who see’s the cuts, their chest will feel tight and they will feel like it was their fault for letting it get this far. The only mark you will be leaving on them is pain, hurt, and the question why? So please note this, there is pain in every suicide attempt, every death, every cut. You are not only hurting your life, but others too. Because you are cared for.

i.c. // “There is always pain in death, maybe not felt by the one dying, but felt by the lovers of the deceased.” (via delicatepoetry)

oh my fucking god

(via overratedsuicide)

The Woods and Life Revisited

It’s 7:06 in the morning and I’m in the middle of the woods.

Father Dyer campground near Turquoise Lake in Leadville, about half an hour into the woods from town.

I’m sitting here at the picnic table and I can smell the savory stench of cooking bacon as my Dad hovers on the stove.

It’s quiet now, aside from the whining of Molly the obstinate bloodhound who I’m sure also smells the bacon.

We woke up at around 5 this morning. Fog fell in over the trees and made the forest seem like one of the photos of the pacific northwest you see on tumblr. 

My dad woke me up by heating water on the stove for some instant coffee, we sat outside and talked about nothing as we swatted away the few remaining mosquitos and sipped on the coffee.

When my dad saw me taking pictures of the fog over the trees he offered to drive me to the lake so I could get some pictures of the fog rolling over the water and as we stood there out on the dock the sun began to rise and burned off the fog over the peaks in the distance.

The trip in was an adventure. My brakes, which had been squeaky for weeks finally gave out just out of Frisco, thank god they were okay on the hill down from the tunnel.

Pulling into the campground my dad took a drive around in my car to find a spot and reported back saying my brakes were shot.

The afternoon was spent going back into town and leaving the car at Bart’s Auto Repair with old man Charlie who didn’t speak great and had grease caked into in the fabric of his blue work shirt.

After that, we got ice cream at the family dollar and beer at the only good liquor store in town and then came back to the campsite.

Charlie said he’d call in the morning when the brakes and rotors were good. 

I don’t usually camp with other people let alone my parents but the offer was on the table and the crushing weight of existence was pouring down over my shoulders back at home so I took the opportunity. It’s been worth it so far.

I noticed last night that my dad talks a lot. I had known he was extraverted but it seems the man can’t shut up and enjoy the beauty of nature. He’s not as bad as my aunt though, that doesn’t seem to have any kind of filter between what goes on in her head and what comes out of her mouth.

Geoff called last night. He showed us the nursery via Facetime and it’s hard to believe that I’m going to be an uncle in a matter of weeks.

I’ve said before how I don’t generally find the idea of kids appealing but seeing the sonogram photos of baby Everett something in me stirred. I think I could get to like this kid. I just hope he likes me back.

I’m moving in 16 days. I’m not sure how thrilled I am to be moving to Longmont and I kind of think I won’t be there for longer than a year. Hopefully I can figure something out and find somewhere in the mountains. Maybe I’ll find a good gig.

As for now, it’s just the woods. 

The Gesticulating Woman

There’s a woman sitting to my left.

She’s sitting forward as if she’s entrenched in whatever’s happening on the years old macbook that’s sitting in her lap.

 She keeps shaking her head and moving her arms as if to say “fuck this”. I can’t tell if she’s doing this trying to get my attention or if these strange movements of exasperation just come natural to her.

 You’d think that in a very public setting like the middle of a coffee shop she would keep these strange movements and the exasperation to herself so as not to call attention to herself but she keeps doing it and I don’t know why.

 I’m being extra careful not to look at her though. And if she is trying to call attention to herself, why is she doing it? Why does she want my attention?

 It’s strange, these rituals we have, these actions we perform in society. I have mine, I like to be anonymous. I don’t like to be the subject of anyone’s attention. Just leave me the fuck alone if you please. Let me be solitary. Let be a temple unto myself without invasion.

 The woman is moving her shoulders now as if she’s dancing and I’m starting to think that maybe she has some rare incurable disease that commands her to move constantly. It’s either parkinson’s or akithesia, one of the two.

 Unless she wants me to look at her but I don’t want to. I don’t want to make contact with this woman because if I do I’m scared she’ll pull me into some strange conversation about the parallels between god and the show ‘Lost’.

 You never know what kind of fucked up shit is boiling just beneath the surface of seemingly normal people.

 I seem to have a skill that’s both a blessing and a curse. That’s the ability to remain still and listen and provide sensory feedback through skillfully articulated movements of my eyebrows and face. People think I’m a good listener but I just want them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone but I don’t say as much because it’s a battle for me, a battle between politeness and indifference. I don’t have the balls to just walk away when someone’s talking at me so I remain still and pretend like I’m listening through some skillfully articulated movements of my eyebrows and my face. 

Thankfully, I have my headphones on signaling to this woman who keeps gesticulating that I’m not open for conversation. I want her to leave. Or to just stop it.

This kind of thing gets me thinking about the performances we put on for the world. It gets me thinking about how sometimes when I’m panicking I just sit as still as possible and try desperately to not look at anything beside the screen that’s in front of me. It gets me thinking about how I figured this social stuff out, how I turned it over a million times examining every nuance to figure out what acting natural means. To be a solitary functioning unit that doesn’t call attention to himself.

It gets me thinking about how I bet, if I tried I could be a pretty good actor. I could manufacture a state of being relatively easy if you asked me to. I had to fake all of that shit to figure out how simply just relaxing into yourself provided the easiest façade. I’m not saying I’m pretending to be a human right now, although it feels like it a lot of the time, I’m just saying that the whole range of human emotions is relatively easy to execute if you memorize all the moves.

This whole thing makes me sound like a sociopath with no emotion but I have a deep well of blue emotion deep within the caves of my being. It sits tranquil there in the depths, only disturbed by the storms inside.

I’ve mastered the anonymous quiet public persona and it’s my default.

I don’t want your attention, I just want to sit here and be absorbed by my work but you’re making me lose focus gesticulating woman, why don’t you just leave? –End dialogue

Life - June, 26th 2014

I feel it today.

 The penetrating void. That nasty fickle lonely that has eaten away at my edges for years.

 I had a dream last night where I saved a girl I was into in high school from her whiny husband. There was also the zen house that I’ve seen in my dreams before. None of that matters though, it was just a fucking dream. To feel her hand on my chest and to hear her voice in it though, that gnawed at me.

 Then when I woke up, life was life. The same old boring life I’ve lived for the last however many years.

 I’ve been talking to the facebook crush on and off, you know that feeling though, when the conversation has to be forced to keep it going? I’m thinking I should just let it go. Probably a wise move.

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