Taking eight more hours of my life Lifeless spider crawls across my skin Been dead inside for so long Forgot what it meant to live at all Taking each moment as it comes Losing track of each day Is it Tuesday or Sunday? Does it even matter anymore? Building a nest of dead things in my heart Thoughts and memories I want to forget Burned in my mind, across my skin Feel everything and nothing all the same Strapping myself to the stake Living a life without complaint In death maybe I could be free Maybe more of the same Too much doubt in everything Moving on, where it leads all the same Outcomes and differences are for those Who have nothing to lose
If you concern yourself with other people’s problems… They are no longer their problems…
Counting the minutes until the end Running numbers inside my head Roaming clock of gunshots in the distance Loud noises to prove I’m still here Endless ideas to hold me under Went in early the day that I died Only to know I’ve been here before Thoughts written out in tiny sentences Short little ideas I live out Living was an ideas I couldn’t comprehend Dying seemed too easy to be the plan Stuck somewhere in between complaining Counting the minutes until this is all over Don’t rush me I’ve already skipped ahead Pushing myself beyond limits Burning the candle at both ends? Try doused in gasoline
Smashing myself against the glass…
Desperately trying to hang on Fingers clenched to the side of it all If a dream doesn’t last Is it a nightmare or the end? Some days are better Today is not one of them Running in the night Chasing darkness Desperately trying to hang on To this dream I created in my head Never had another choice They say we have a purpose, do we? They say we make our own future, do we? They say so much shit Infecting and rotting my brain I miss the days when nothing I said meant anything Step after step, can’t turn back All for nothing, all that I have become What was the point of this? If for nothing at all Tired of waiting, tired of even caring Drain my own blood and it wasn’t enough Running from the demon, chasing the dark Running from myself all along Where did I really think I was going With myself tagging along There never was no dream, no army, no wall Only me, only my own demons to conquer Been so blind, so misguided for too long Known the answer for too long A dream isn’t an idea A nightmare or a choice Something we are born with Something we must do, see to the end A battle between good and evil Right and wrong Heaven and Hell A battle that never mattered at all The dream is me The darkness is me The demon is me Need to shut up and enjoy the ride Need to quit waiting Quit complaining and enjoy the life I was given The one I created The one I’ve always wanted Limits are for the ones too scared to look past them The ones I have placed upon myself New dawn rises, where I stand Is where I chose to be Suffer or survive It is all on me
Well that got intense… for me at least… talked out a lot of thoughts out of my head… talked myself off a ledge… need to stop feeling sorry for myself… stop feeling like I’m not good enough to do this… all of this… spent too much of my life doubting myself… hurting myself… pretending I wasn’t… no one cares and maybe they shouldn’t… no where is it written that they should… reading between the lines only get you stuck between two ideas…
Been stuck there for a very long time… stuck in my head… now that I’ve stepped out… where do I go?… what is the path?… what is the goal?.. spent so much time thinking this would get better… this would all heal itself… missing all the better around me… the hope I thought I lost… has been standing next to me all along… locked away by my own selfishness… by my own insecurities… some of you have seen into the window of my heart… between the bars… but I haven’t until today… all I ever saw was the cage… the limits…
The path is clear… the goal is simple… failing is not an option… nothing is over until it is done… I’m not going anywhere… so strap in…going to come back swinging… as I have always said I would… and you should…
I don’t have anything to say, but of course this is not my fault. It is probably in some ways yours as I take no blame for anything that are faults of my own. No, I am from a generation that is like every generation before it. Masked and paraded in a way that makes us seem different, but each generation is the same. My generation’s mask seems so obvious. Ripe for the picking. My generation expects to be rewarded for showing up. We deserve the world because we were promised the world. I choose my hours and I expect to reserve the same amount of hours each week dispute quality of work. I’m here am I not? Bow before me and kiss my feet. You can’t replace me with a robot. Not yet at least but until you do. Know that I am in charge. Glad I could be the one to inform you. Don’t make me get my mother on the phone. She will only say what I’ve been told all this time. Don’t worry I won’t call her unless I have to. A weapon I keep in my back pocket. A weapon that has no repercussions but I know I can use. This is only the start of what I deserve, what I expect from this life. Outside of work I expect much greater things. I know I deserve a mansion full of food and a car that does zero to sixty in less than ten seconds and a phone blazing fast phone and a TV bigger than a wall and I deserve these things because I exist in this world. I need unlimited connection to this world I have no real knowledge about. If these small demands. No if these basic necessities of life aren’t met so help me I’ll have no choice other than to milk a system I had no hand in creating. You may see me as a fat pig begging for more, but no I am nothing more than a small, starving, and dying child. Nothing is not guaranteed as long as it has been on TV. I’m not sure this is right. I’m not sure this is true, but I’m sure at one time or another I’ve done at least one of these to you. Justified in my actions. Justified in my thoughts all I know is it couldn’t have been my fault.
Something very different… I found this buried deep within my files… maybe I should have left it there… but where is the fun in that?… I’m not sure what triggered me to write this in the first place… but upon reading it I was triggered again… I tried to leave it as is… not add anything to it… I’m sure I did though… write something over and over again… it will change…overall though… I think a lot of “us” are treated like this… as a child… sometimes justified… most of the time not… we get grouped up in this group… I believe that is where this stems from…
Hard to say when it was written almost a decade ago… I have a lot of notes and files… saved up of course… in case I don’t have anything real to say… : )
Oddly enough… I do find myself having this stupid debate about generations… more than anyone should… the best argument of course is that we are lazy… don’t know anything about hard work… expect so much… blah… blah… blah… truth is yes… with each passing generation we have become all of those things because we are advancing… each generation rewrites the term “hard work”… as it should… each previous generation defines “laziness”…
Because… “Do you know what I had to do for insert something“… “Do you know what it took to get insert something“… “Yes, grandpa… You had to walk eight miles up hill because apparently you grew up on a mountain… We have electric scooters for that now… no one has time to be walking”…
That was a weird paragraph… but you get the point… hopefully… I’m to lazy to reread it again… I never said none of it was true… losing the point… wandering off… it shouldn’t be news… but it is… we are no lazier than the last generation… unless you are talking about this new generation because…. it is sad really… my daughter is too lazy to even finish the YouTube video… she expects everything to run off an app… and apparently if we don’t have something/ she breaks something… it’s okay… “You can buy another one”… Hands me my phone… fucking Amazon…
Speaking of… Books now available in paperback and digital on Amazon… In case my daughter broke yours… I promises that the sentence structure… makes way more sense than this…
“I tried to quit smoking recently and it didn’t go well. Go
well is a bit of an understatement really. In the aftermath though I realized a
few things about myself. Turns out I wasn’t addicted to smoking or some oral
fixation, which sounds like I will suck on anything pointed at my face by the
way. No, the reason I can’t stop inhaling dried leaves laced with additives and
chemicals is because I am addicted to a much darker thought. I am addicted to
the thought of death. Even if it is a slow drawn out death. One filled with
hacking and an overall weathering of my body as I watch myself slowly extinguish
like the very thing I love. I am fixated on the thought of death to just stop
myself from killing myself. Does that make sense? In some ways we are self-destructive.
That isn’t a new idea in this world.
Some of us shoot shit into our veins. Others barrel down the road in hopes that
a child doesn’t pop up in a school zone. I put something to my lips and take a
deep breath. We as humans are addicted to destroying ourselves. On purpose or
by circumstance we can’t give it up. I can’t think of one thing that I do that
isn’t killing me in some way. Which may be a good reason to give up one that I
know will, but why? What’s really in it for me? Life always ends in the same
whether we want it to or not. Right or wrong all we have in life is faith that
we are doing what is best for ourselves even if it is not. Our judgements and
our thoughts are ours, but sometimes there is no need to express every last
one. The mind is a terrible thing to waste and sometimes hearing a piece of it
can be too much to handle. Opinions maybe like assholes and everyone’s got one,
but it doesn’t mean we want to hear them,” I spill out. “Yes, these are all valuable
points Layne, but what were you thinking about at the time?” The lady with the
clip board asks me. “I prefer Ambrose,” I inform her. “My apologies Ambrose,
but please answer the question,” she says in a way that lets me know that she
doesn’t care. This is another job. Another moron she has to deal with. “Those
were my exact thoughts give or take a few on the spot additions. I tend to
fixate on an idea and kind of “black out” or chew on that idea for a while.
Well until something else pisses me off or annoys me. Then I switch to that
one,” I ramble on. She give me a look that I have seen before. Everyone gives
me that look whenever I try to explain myself. Same look just before they roll their eyes.
“Those were your exact thoughts when you were,” she pauses
to flip through some papers on her clipboard. “Ah yes, here we are,” she
finally says before turning the clipboard towards me. She shows me a picture of
the aftermath of my actions. I try to not look at the picture, but when it is
basically shoved in your face it is hard to look away. “Those were your
thoughts when you did this?” She asks again. I fidget against the restraints
they have me in, “I mean give or take. Yeah that is what I was thinking about.”
She turn the clipboard back to herself and flips back to where she left off. “How does it make you feel doing what you did
to that innocent lady?” she asks me. “Well it doesn’t make me feel good, but let’s
not throw around the word innocent so loosely. I mean if you would have heard
what she had to say and the way she was saying it. My actions might almost seem
justified. I mean in the right circle,” I try to joke. “Justified? This isn’t a
joke Mr. Ambrose. I’d hardly call decapitating a defenseless woman in front of
her children justified because she was simply informing you about the harm you
were doing to yourself,” she says all butt hurt. “Words, words, words it is all
about how you say them. That’s the thing about perception. I’ll tell you one
thing. Those children learned a valuable lesson that day,” I say in a less
playful tone. “What possible lesson could those poor children have learned from
you that day?” She asks with fire burning in her eyes. “Besides the obvious? Those
kids learned that sticks and stone will hurt them, but words will surely kill
me,” I let off a dark sinister laugh.
Horrified the doctor gets up from her chair. “You are sick Layne Ambrose,” the doctor tries to say over all of my laughing. “You haven’t been paying attention,” I say in a low tone between all the laughing. She stares at me. Puzzled as I leap at her from across the coffee table. Dislocating my thumb before I leaped at her I knock her to the floor. I sit on top of her as she tries to fight me off. She isn’t strong enough to get me off of her. I pop my arm thumb back into socket and grab the pen the lays next to us. “Help,” she screams. “Help me,” she struggles to say as I put my hand on her throat. “Someone,” she fights to say as I stab the pen into her neck over and over again. She slowly stops fighting me, but I can see the life still left in her eyes. I release my hand from her throat as more blood rushes from her wound. A large hole in the side of her neck. “You think I am sick?” I ask her. “You think? Maybe the next one will be smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves,” I get up off of her and head back towards my chair. “I think we are going to need some help in here,” I shout as loud as I can. “This one seems to be leaking.”
So if you remember
last year I tried to do this whole insane asylum story arc?… When There Is No More Room…. This story was actually an out take of that
story… well it was supposed to be the catalyst to the doctor character getting
the big job… very early on idea… because eventually I decided to make that
whole story pretty much take place in the past… so me being a live in the 50’s
is a bit of stretch… so why am I in the story?… that seems weird… and it is…
but it also isn’t… even before No More
So.. so.. long ago… in
another galaxy… I had this other idea
for a novel… I still might do it… but even after all these years I still haven’t
come up with a way to not make me seem like a self-centered asshole… which I am
but it doesn’t have to be so obvious… the idea any way was to create a vast
network of short stories that all involved me in some way… so this one… another
that takes place in outer space… where one of the characters drops a line like…
“Have you heard about what’s going on down there? Have you heard about Layne Ambrose?”… all
different genres… all different stories… all involving me…
Yeah… let that soak in… it is a dumb ass idea… but early on… it seemed like the coolest idea ever… whenever you start something new… ideas seem easy to come by… not good ideas… or even great ones… those take years… and that is what I learned in all the years that I have been writing… this was a one off story I wanted to share… give you a taste of what could have been… and will most likely never be… you didn’t ask for it… but you are more than welcome….
There is a line we do not cross Hop over it once and it’s all your fault Step over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between hearts and breaks Thin lines grow between us Keeping us apart yet very much the same There are lines we do not cross Reach over them once and it’s all your fault Fall over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between souls and life Thin lines grow within us Keeping us together yet very much the same
“What do you got there Sylvia?” An orderly asks. Her young frame hunched over an open notebook. She pretends to not hear the question. “Hey Sylvia,” he calls out once again. As the youngest patient in the asylum he isn’t used to her teenage attitude in this dark dingy place overcrowded with pain, neglect, and isolation. “Nothing, just something I have been working on to pass the time,” she answers. “Did you not hear me the first time?” He ask. “I heard you,” she says into her notebook. “Okay, well maybe sometime you could show me what you have been working on,” he smiles. She looks up at him, “Yeah maybe.” She buries her head back into her notebook. The orderly shakes his head and walks over to the other side of the room to talk to the other patients in the recreation room. “So what are you working on Harold?” She hears him ask the only other patient not drugged out of their mind. She picks up her pen.
I’m so depressed here. I wish I never “volunteered” to be admitted. Should have just run away again or finished what I started. I’ve been rubbing the scars again. No one would listen to me outside of this walls or inside them. I should have known he would have sent me to a place that wouldn’t listen. This place is like school. “Sylvia stop your lying.” Maybe I’m not lying. Maybe you aren’t listening. The deep jagged cuts down my arm don’t help me to forget. The pain is long gone from the last time, but somehow still linger in my mind. Thought maybe if I wasn’t pretty anymore. Wasn’t perfect then maybe. It doesn’t matter what I thought. How many times am I going to tell myself the same thing? How many times am I going to justify trying to kill myself? No one cares why it happened as long as it isn’t happening. I’m safer here than at home. That’s what is important. As long as I keep my volunteer status he can’t hurt me. As long as I am here I am safe. The reason doesn’t matter anymore. No one is going to stop him, but at least I did.
The orderly makes his way back over to her. His footsteps echo within the room. She closes up her notebook, “Yes Charles?” He checks his watch, “I’ve been reminded to remind you that your next appointment is in a five minutes.” She rolls her eyes, “Funny how that seems to be the case every week.” He smiles and pretends that her attitude isn’t bothering him. A talent he learned from his two girls at home. “It is quite odd. Might have to do something about that,” he jokes. “Them doing anything here would be a first,” she says as she gets up from her chair and walks away.
The door to the doctor’s office is open slightly as she knocks on the door. “Come in. How are we doing today Sylvia?” The doctor asks as he looks at a chart that isn’t even hers. “Fine, I guess. Same as always,” she mocks. “You know you can leave whenever you want? Maybe go back home and spend some time with your family. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He asks without looking at her once. “I’m sure they miss me immensely. At least that is what they would want you to believe, but I’m certain I am just fine right here,” she looks down at her scars once again. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll make a call to your parents and tell them you are ready to go home,” he says. “I didn’t say that at all,” she says. “I just want to tell you Sarah we made some real progress in the time that you have been here,” the doctor rattles off. “My name is Sylvia,” she says in anger. “Yes, I am aware and I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to write you a script for some mood suppressors. You don’t have to take them, but if you feel all the anxiety coming back on I want you to feel safe,” the doctor says. “I feel safe here. I want to stay here,” She tries to reason. “Change is good for you. You have been here too long. It’s time for you to go home. I know your father misses you every much. I have been keeping him updated and he seems as optimistic as I am about your recovery,” he looks up from his chart. “So go ahead and get your things ready for tomorrow. That seems like a perfect place to end today,” he gives off a weak smile. Sylvia begins to cry. The tears falling from her eyes to her arms and running along her scars, “I don’t want to go.” The nurse comes in and places a hand on her shoulder. “Nurse remind me that I need to call her parents in a bit and if you could have Charles bring in the next patient that would be wonderful,” the doctor asks. “Yes, sir. Come on Sylvia let’s get you back to your room,” the nurse says to her. “But I don’t want to go,” she begins to sob. “I know dear. I know,” the nurse says as she rubs her shoulder. The doctor goes back to his file as the nurse escorts Sylvia from the room.
“There she is,” Charles calls out as he walks by her open door. “Glad to see you writing again,” he says to her. She doesn’t respond to him as she sits still at her desk. Memories flooding her mind. “Wanted to check in on you. Heard you were pretty upset earlier,” he says to more silence. “Also heard you were going home tomorrow too. That is good news,” he tries to sound excited. “Mind If I take a look at what you are writing? I understand if you don’t feel like talking,” Charles suggest. “Very much so. It is private,” she snaps at him. “I see you are excited about leaving tomorrow,” he snaps back. “Maybe even sooner,” she says under her breath. “What?” Charles asks concerned. “I said I want you to leave. Did you not hear me the first time,” Sylvia screams at him with tears in her eyes. “I just want you to know that I am here if you need to talk,” Charles says in a caring voice before walking out of the room. Sylvia quickly gets up from her chair and slams the door behind him. Only doors don’t slam here. She pushes all her weight against the door to try and get it to close faster. Tears streaming down her face as she struggles. Despite living in the same room for the past six months her room is nearly bare. A bed, a dresser, and a desk. “Her desk,” she thinks to herself. Her father’s money was at least good for something in this place. A private room and her own desk, but they wouldn’t let her have her pens. Not after what happened. They gave her special hospital pens, but only after she had developed trust. She couldn’t do much of anything with those useless things any way. She calms down enough to return to her desk and flips open the note book to where she left off.
There is a silence It is a constant There is a sadness It is a constant There are so many things And they are all constant I can taste the blood on the page I can feel the sweat on the page I can see the tears on the page As each drop becomes the page Why doesn’t anyone understand
Sylvia tosses the note book as hard as she can. It bursts open as it smashes against the wall. Papers, words, time falls to the floor. She begins to sob at the thought of the words, “I know your father misses you very much.” Visions of the past fill her mind. Remembering the pain. Remembering the fear of it all. Remembering that no one would listen. No one cared. “How could you ever say a thing like that about your father,” her mother’s words echo in her mind. Only to be replaced by the memory of his touch and his words. “You are so beautiful. My perfect little angel,” his words like poison slipping into her mind. You are confused at first. Why now? Why this? So you fight it the best you can, but the fight becomes useless. The whole thing becomes normal. A daily routine that you can’t wash away from your mind. The thought becomes clear. If I’m no longer perfect then it will stop. The memory of the pain from before washes over her once again. Make myself imperfect. Make it go away. The blood drips on the floor. It stains the carpet, but they clean it and they move on. It never stops the abuse. The monster doesn’t care if you are perfect. The monster doesn’t care at all. Deeper you dig. Deeper you find yourself in pain. Deeper until you think that it is over. Until you find yourself here and know that it is. Sylvia reaches under her desk to grab the item hidden beneath. When she got here she was hopeful that it would never have to be used again, but deep down she knew someday she would need a way out. She holds the jagged piece of mental in her hands. “We don’t even know what she cut herself on,” he mother told the hospital. Squeezing all her anger and the pain into it. “Here we go again,” she thinks. “A conclusion I can no longer hide away from.” She holds the broken piece of metal in her hand. She gently places it on her desk and opens her last remaining note book.
“When we bleed it is only to cleanse our souls. It’s like letting the air out of the tires every now and then. Sometimes it hurts more than others, but the hurt never compares to the pain. The hurt feels good in a way. The pain doesn’t. I wish someone would have listened to me. Anyone at this point. I wish I could explain the pain that I am in, but for some reason, I can’t. It could be the lack of blood still left within me or my ever lack of words associated with the pain. Pain is nothing like the hurt. The hurt comes and goes, but the pain. The pain is always there. Every once in a while I found myself here in this place. This dark hole surround by all the pain I don’t understand. This place of self-loathing and hate. I control my own destiny, right? Or have I just misheard some well-placed advice? Maybe I don’t control anything since no matter my choices I always end up here. I always end up with this pain. No one cares, but everyone’s still listening. I know it is not my fault and maybe it still is. Should have never. Should have done things differently. This has to be for the best. Nothing else left to do. Except release myself from this burden. Release me from this hole. I tried. I really did. Maybe not enough or in the way I should have….”
This is a work of fiction, but sadly the concept behind it is not. This story is lived day in and day out by an unknown amount of children. Many of whom do not reach out. It is not normal and it is not okay. If you or someone you know is being abused. Please reach out for help and never stop reaching out for help. Help is always there even when it feels like the whole world won’t listen to you. Click the links below to find help or to find out how you can help those in need.You are not powerless and you are loved.
I debated on how graphic I wanted to get with this story… from the suicide to the abuse… I debated for a long time… this story kind of took a life of it’s own… I started the story with the idea to write a back story to a previous character… Sylvia from Purgatory… seemed pretty simple… I liked the character a lot from that story… I liked her attitude… I liked who she could have been… seeing how everyone in that story is dead already when we meet them… I wanted to do a sequel…
The original idea for Sylvia was to write out a “love story” where she explains what her scars are from to the main character of Purgatory… (Fun fact… I only kept writing that story because of her… Sylvia to me was the thread that held that early story together for me…) but I don’t do love stories very well… and I wasn’t sure how she had gotten her scars… In the original story she never says… she hides them when ever she can… spark… “why?”… and the more I thought about it… the more it became the story above… Of course when I came up for air I found myself someplace very far from a “love story”…
The first couple of drafts had way more detail… way more things that didn’t need to be said… and I’m not afraid to say certain things… I’ve got stories toprove it… but this one seemed different… though this didn’t happen to me personally… it felt personal… which made this one that much harder to write… as an observer it is always easier to write something when you are not attached to the subject… I of course didn’t want anything to ever happen to Sylvia… I don’t want anything to happen to anyone… and sadly these things do… So I didn’t want to just file it away and pretend like these things don’t happen… That these things could never happen…
Sometimes the hardest things to say are the ones that need to be said the most…
Standing beside the devil at the gates of hell There’s no heaven for someone like me Laid down before Christ Kissed his feet Hoping I won’t be the only one that’s died Best one could hope for a silent death Stripping the flesh inch for inch Killing the idea of you was never meant to be easy Taking breath for breath, taking a life Welcome home tattooed across my skin In blood, in blood we learn what freedom is Never forget who you really are A devil saint masquerading as a demon One in the fucking same, no different from the next Who I am and what you’ll be What is it that the world made me A puppet, a pawn, my new plaything Smile, this is all God ever asked from you The blood only a part of the process Smile, gave you all that you needed Never good enough, no one ever will be Need more to understand What I’ve become Same as you only worse Never give anything You aren’t willing to lose
Testing Out The Thoughts In My Head
Dragging the blade against the skin What was it that you once said No one could ever be a beautiful as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly you changed Now who is the one begging I was dead Dragging the blade against the skin Tearing out all the dirty thoughts Where do I begin, trapped within No one could ever be as clean as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly I changed Now who is the one suggesting medicine Dragging the blade against the skin Carving out all the pieces I adore Being so selective never felt so good What was it you once said No one could be as perfect as you I beg to differ on the subject Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly your pleas turn into threats Now who is the one begging I quit Dragging the blade against the skin I wish I could live in Worship me as I have always you Be mine so we can end these stupid games Promise me you’ll always be as beautiful As I make you Obsession leads to creativity Testing out all the thoughts in my head
Got pretty dark in here… That first one started off as a Broken Thought… then it kept going… had to change the whole theme of my post… was originally going to talk about the sun and how life is so beautiful… really just the beauty of life… the normal things I like to talk about really… but then this dark cloud came out of nowhere… sometimes life is about riding the wave of emotions… maybe next time on Cuddling with Glass…. (That still sounds pretty painful… There’s nothing soft, warm, or fuzzy about glass… other options… Gluing with Glass… Blowing with Glass… if you came up with anything post it in the comments…)
“Some nights I awake to this feeling that something is wrong. I wake up in the middle of the night most days and maybe you wake up in the day only to feel the same way. Scratching at the walls of your coffin. I’m unsure how that really works. Some nights the sky somehow seems darker than the one before it. A darkness so dark that it is as though light cannot penetrate. This isn’t a metaphor, but a fact. It makes everything, it puts me on edge for the rest of the day. Every turn of every corner leaves me waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong or fall apart. These are metaphors though and irrational thoughts because nothing ever seems to happen. Maybe because I am aware? Because I am on the lookout for this doom that never comes? Were you aware? I think about that sometimes. I think about a lot of things with my time. I use to think I knew what life meant. What life had in store for me, but the longer I am alive the more I realize I don’t know anything.”
“Our time spent is a waste, our time not spent is a waste. Every day can feel exactly the same and yet this feeling grows. Ideas are spent trying to figure out what we are, but little to none is spent on who we are day to day at least. It gets lost, my thoughts, as I try to say or even think them rather. What I’m trying to say, what I want to say is that this longing for something greater only leave us at one conclusion. What is greater? Is breathing not great enough? The ability to think, create, or move not great enough? What is it that I want out of life besides living it? There always seems to be this bar just out of my reach, but I know that if I reach it there will only be one higher above it. Still I struggle to find the strength to do what I know needs to be done. A list of tasks, a stack of papers, a head full of ideas, and I have no idea what to do. Where to go next? Wasting time in the dark. Living a life I once thought was living. I know there is something greater out there. I also know there is nothing out there. Stuck somewhere in between or living how it was always intended to be?”
“This endless cycle is pointless in thought, but in theory it seems to be what is needed to get through these days. These dark days. These days that seem like everything is going to collapse upon itself at any moment. I still have more time on this planet than I would like to admit and I don’t know what to do with it. An endless amount of time trying or fighting will only lead me back to where I am today. I use to think that I knew what life meant, but every day it seems to rewrite itself. Everyday life seems to be changing and going nowhere all at the same time. Life is always changing, but I keep staying the same. Locked inside my head. Rambling to the dead.” She lingers at the grave stone long after the words have left her mouth. Reading the words, tracing the lines carved in stone with her eyes.
Layne Ambrose Father, Son, Husband “Never Could Get Anything Done But At Least You Tried.”
This one so far has changed more than any other story this cycle… Was unsure what to do with it really… Rewrote it several times… re read it just as many… hopefully it all flows… this isn’t an excuse for laziness… though it will sound like one… but sometimes after reading something over and over it bleeds together… love the website… love posting… but there is no time to linger in this format… to obsess over every word and sentence… which is a blessing and a curse… because I will hold onto ideas for years because it isn’t “100%”…. fun fact… no story is ever at a hundred percent…
I have been done with A Lie for years… and every now and then I catch myself starting another chapter for a story that is “done”… ride out the thought and then toss it in the trash file… I’m done with that story… but sometimes the mind lingers… we change… we want to go back and change things… I’m a better writer now than I was then… but no matter how much better I get… I will never be back in that time… that point in my life… I will never see the world the same again…
That was what this one was about for me… which to me is a good idea… but not enough… so I fucked with it… and fucked with it… until I just ran out of time… happy accidents happen when we least expect them… It wasn’t until right now as I was setting up this post that I didn’t feel like I was cheating myself in some way… settling on an idea that I thought was a waste of time… not good enough… to be fair I think this about all of my ideas… but in this case as I was setting up the post… an idea came to me…
What if it wasn’t about me… what if it was about someone else close to me?… Ideas are infectious… we are only copies of those before us… our families… our parents… with add ons… this is a very basic concept of the human brain and please don’t take offense… My dad was an asshole too… but I’m still into shit that was introduced to me before he left… another time… point is… as much as we as parents don’t want to pass on our negative attributes to our children we enviably do… it is unavoidable to a certain degree… the hope is that they will be better than we were and over come the things we couldn’t… I know it always seems like our parents or our parent want us to do so many things with our lives… but that is all they really want… that is what each generation is… a do over on the last one… change is slow though… and the world is fast… and only getting faster… another time on this idea as well…
The woman or girl… at the end is my daughter… and I failed to do what I meant to do as a parent… to not pass on all the negative shit I’m not going to list here… that concept got me excited about this story… my hope is that at a deeper level that was apparent… but it isn’t vital to the story… it is only vital to me and my enjoyment of the story… that is a little insight on how these stories shift through my brain to the “page”… hope all is well…
Game 2… We are playing The Ungame once again… Let’s get right into this…
Question 1… If You Could Hang A Motto Or Saying In Every Home In The World, What Would It Be?
These are some long ass questions… maybe it is my fear of speaking in front of people… but if I was playing this game with actual people… I’d have quit on turn 1… This one is easy and hard for me… easy because it comes from the same source and the same song… hard because I don’t know which line I would choose… I can’t even decided which line to tattoo on my body… The two lines tearing me apart are… “Not all martyrs reach divinity but at least you tried,” and “Get off your fucking cross.” Both lines are from the Tool song Eulogy… I have them written on nearly everything… I have “Get off your fucking cross,” written on my keyboard… it helps me write… motivates me… brings me back to reality… reminds me that I’m not fucking special… I’m just me…
and right below where I rest my keyboard I have a piece of tape with the words… “But at least you tried”… Which is actually something I put down during my dark times last year… when I was feeling sorry for myself… feeling like a failure at everything… that line really stuck with me through those dark days… that line helped save me among other things… that line gave me a lot of strength to believe in myself… I will fail… I’m going to fail… I am failing… but at least I fucking tried… what else could I have really wanted out of this day, but a chance?…
Question 2… What Do You Like Most About Yourself?
That I don’t like myself… it allows me to be very critical of myself… allows me to tear myself apart… and not feel bad about it?… I’d say I’m pretty normal in that I don’t like myself… at all really… don’t like my name… don’t like how I think… don’t like what I waste my time doing… if I could tear off my own flesh and slap on a fresh one… I don’t know that I wouldn’t… but at the same time you have to make the best of what you got… so that’s that… if I had to pick a body part though… I’d have to say I have some pretty amazing legs… no one is ever going to see…
I was watching this reality show or documentary when I was younger… what’s the difference anymore?… and there was this guy who was going to get calf implants… because he felt like his legs weren’t the way that they need to be… drama… drama… drama… big reveal… his legs looked basically like mine… except fake… that made me feel pretty good… was still a hundred pounds over weight and ugly… but I had legs someone was willing to pay to get… look for the positive in everything I guess…
Question 3… If You Could Have Been Someone In History, Who Would You Have Been?
You’re look at it… I am history in the flesh… haha… I’m confused by this question actually… am I supposed to pick a person I could have been or am I supposed to pick someone I would have wanted to be?… If I am supposed to pick someone I could have been… then that is stupid… because there is a reason they are part of history… there was something about this person that made them unlike anyone else at the time… in few cases something made them unlike anyone else ever… does that sound crazy?… am I avoiding the question?… is saying Jesus… hitting the nail on the head a little too hard?… : )
Let’s get off that fucking cross for a moment and assume they want me to pick someone in history I would have wanted to have been… how does one make a choice on who they would be… money?… power?… courage?… selflessness?… That is such a hard question to answer… I think I would want to be someone who made a difference in everyone’s lives for the positive… Someone like Martin Luther King Jr… Susan B. Anthony… someone who fought for civil rights… for everyone not just themselves… I think being selfless… is so admiral… should be celebrated more… because we as humans are very selfish… so to be so selfless… to give so much… to care about more than just me… goes against our very nature… I would want to be someone like that… to get in their head and see how they think… see how they see the world… feel how they see the world… even for a day…for a moment… would really be interesting to me…
Question 4… If You Could Change Your Age, What Age Would You Rather Be?
I’m shuffling this cards better next time… way too much reflection for someone who doesn’t even like to look into a mirror… depends… would I just be younger now or would I have to be my younger self?… younger now with all my thoughts and feelings would be ideal for me… though I think my wife and daughter would find it creepy… going back and starting at a different age that I was before would be so shitty… more so if I knew what was already going to happen… through out all the negative shit that happened to me… that I have been through in this life… could you fucking imagine the torment of knowing you had to wait even a year for the internet to become a thing?… holy fucking shit… I’d rip my god damn hair out…
I mean I’d have to actually watch a movie?… and not search Wikipedia to read ahead… I’d have to actually watch a film without knowing the trivia from IMDB?… I could only talk to someone I could find in a phone book and even then I’d have to call 15 Smiths before I got the right one?… Shit I’d have to actually leave my house to do anything?… Anyone born in the last ten years and beyond needs to change how they greet us old timers… “Thank you for your sacrifice”… should be the first words out of their mouths every time they see us… and you are very welcome… (seriously though… how are any of us still alive?)
Question 5… How Would You Describe Peace?
Peace would be… an operating table with an endless supply of bodies… instruments… and time… : )