The F word

Finally felt like I found the future.
Possessed with a powerful faith, the ancients called fatum.
Figured you for destiny with forever being its finality
I was never being facetious or fallacious
It's never fair to project the familiar
while sabotaging the unfamiliar
Maybe, my sticky fingers held on too firmly
but I never claimed to not be flawed
I fail more often than I don't
and I never ask to be fixed
Only forgiven
Few can find a best friend
Freedom cannot co-exist with fear
I feared your resentment would resurface
My good intentions formed distrust
I take full responsibility and fault
It's never fair to find sadistic joy
while feigning to be a victim
If we are truly finished
and cannot fix what has been fractured
I will look back at you fondly
and favor you above the rest
I had hoped our foundation
was firm enough for this
It's never fair to confuse the literal
with the subjective figuratively
Your anger isn't foreign
Your forgiveness surely is
If we, of all people, could not make this function
Then this world is surely fucked.

Sodium Pentothal

I think we all reach a point in our lives where we wish it was how it used to be.  We begin to fondly look back at moments in our lives that we once couldn't wait to surpass.   When we're younger, we're always looking ahead.  When we're older, we are always looking backwards.

I remember the name of every girl who broke my heart.  I can describe each one from head to toe whom did not return the same level of interest as I had in her.  And those who loved me, excluding a few, remain in the forgotten ashes of my youth.  I suppose we tend to take those who love us, those who want us for granted; as if, they or someone like them will always be waiting...

When I was younger and less tame than I am now, I may have been fixated on fun, friends and living in the moment as most of us were but I always had one eye open on tomorrow.  I wanted to be a dad for the simple reason, I never had one.  I wanted a wife; the perfect wife.   Perfect for me... A woman that could deal with my neediness, laugh at all my jokes even if she didn't get my train of thought... A woman who could intellectually stimulate me while having that grace and beauty God blessed the woman with... I wanted what most men want.

I got older and began to realize I am more ordinary than I ever realized and more special than I ever gave myself credit for... It's this unhealthy blend of self-depreciation and arrogance.

I have these detailed dreams constantly.  If I take a nap for 10 minutes or an hour or the rare nights, I make it to three hours of sleep without waking up, it's the same thing... I wake up with this profound sadness that leaves a lump in my throat and an emptiness I cannot describe.  There is no joy in my dreams.   I don't even know if there ever was.

I am no different than anyone else whose mind is always racing, whom faces these profoundly dark and coded dreams.  Like them, I tend to think this alone makes me unique.  So, what do I do?  I look for someone to tell those dreams to; as if, anyone really wants to hear them and decipher them for me.  Truth is, maybe, it's just a simple way of letting someone know you need them and if they are willing to just listen and grace me with just enough empathy to allow the dream to fade from memory, I'll feel like someone does care about me.

It's a difficult admission to state or even write that you really don't know who cares about you.  At some point, we become so cynical, we just assume there's this small window in life to achieve love and being loved.  If we miss that window, it becomes our life's mission to just hope someone needs us. 

In the last decade, I've developed some anxiety.  Okay, I want to blame technology or just the normal aging process.  I tried to blame temporary bouts of loneliness.  Truth is, I've always had anxiety but I was never able nor willing to diagnose myself.  I can now.

I look back and start thinking of the names and faces of each person I have ever loved.  And do love.  I desperately try to find exactly what went wrong.  Where I went wrong.  Where I always go wrong.  Maybe, I've just been looking at the wrong things.  We should always demand the best from ourselves; the best versions of ourselves we can become BUT that doesn't mean our self-worth is based on failures or someone not accepting this version of ourselves.   I think true love exists only when two people seek to transform the other into the best version of themselves.  Together.


Twenty minutes ago, I had a dream.  I was standing in the kitchen with the mother of my dead best friend.  She's bringing in groceries.  She says, "there's a steak on the shelf for you".  I look around and every inch of that kitchen wall is covered in family portraits.  No matter where I look, the eyes of that once breathing and vibrant best friend are following me.

As I am preparing this steak bought just for me, walks in the woman I find myself preoccupied with these days... She looks at me and says, "I'll cook it for you" and then she simply disappears.

So, I wake up with this gnawing feeling of loss... Not the loss of the once great friend or this woman I just wish returned the same level of interest I have in her BUT this loss of time.

I love where I am in life. 

I hate it, too.

Off She Goes

Found a solution for the two of us.   As the world burns
She don't know my ideas
Just my dreams
And there she goes looking everywhere
It seems we travel in extremes
and we get nowhere
I approached with caution
til the wind caught word
She don't know but I got ideas
Off she goes with the herd
Seems I'm late
She don't know how long I'd wait

And there she goes
holding the rear view mirror
We never say goodbye
She's been taking too much on
And there she goes with my ideas
And I hold my breath
I draw a picture of the two of us
And watch the colors fade
She don't know I'll just try again

And now the devil thinks he gets the last laugh
He don't know my ideas
Just my fears
And there he goes giving up on me

Found a place for the two of us
As the world burns
See, I've got ideas
buried in my dreams
And there she goes always one step ahead
She don't know my ideas
Just my mistakes
Off she goes and I hold on tight

And she don't see what I see
focused too much on uncertainty
And I hold my breath
And draw a picture of the two of us
Off she goes with her perfect smile
And I will wait
She don't know my ideas
Just my words

And there she goes with her own ideas
I don't know whats between us
And I close my eyes
til she returns
and is off again

The Hardest Thing

Everyone wants to see the happy ending.  To see all loose ends tied neatly together in the end.   It's the formula for all good movies or ones that do well at the box office.  Good is subjective, of course.

I get it.  Movies are supposed to be our escape.  A distraction.  A time to put away critical thinking and just accept that which we see on screen is not a reflection of life but moreso, a microcosm of how we wish life was. 

Life is messy.  Chaotic.  Dramatic.  Up.  Down. 
Happy endings run about 50/50.  Probably less.

I got stuck on some romance movie recently as I was flipping through the channels.  Can't even tell you the title because I showed up mid-movie.  It was the attractive crying actress that made me pause to watch.  Her friend leaned into her and started parroting the most annoying movie cliche ever used... Some variation of that If you love someone, let them go.  If they come back, they are yours.  I turned the channel that very second.  I knew the rest of the movie.  Boy comes back.  Redemption.  Girl happy.  Vindication.  Happily ever after. 

To call something a tired cliche is redundant.  I realize that... but this old movie line often used by the inexperienced at life crowd to cheer up a hurting friend is a tired cliche.  It's bullshit, really. 


I've probably had over 50 best friends in my life.  For as early as I can remember, I've always looked for someone in my life to slap that label on.  Once that current best friend slipped out of my life, I looked for a new one.  It was important to me to have a best friend.  Maybe, it's just a result of being one of those no dad, latchkey kids who constantly sought attention and acceptance.   Defining myself by whom accepts me.  Having a best friend makes us special to that one person.  Best means everyone else is a little less important. 

I think we all have a need to feel important.  To, at least, one person.  I, also, think it's important we go out of our way to fulfill that need in them.  Regardless, if it's reciprocated.


Most of my life lessons come from two places:  my failures and my old black lab, Buddy.  Self awareness doesn't take us too far if we aren't aware of those around us.  What better example of how a life should be lived than a dog? 

Man's best friend is a well deserved title.  It was for Buddy.

His natural curiosity and inbred need to be free often led him to ignore my demands to stay.  On a few occasions, I foolishly took him outside without a leash and of course, that led to him running away.  I've got a dozen stories about how I believed I had lost him forever.  If a dog chooses to disappear once you've given him the opportunity, we are at their mercy.

The beauty of dogs is they want to come back.  On their terms.  When they are ready.  And they will come back.  Always.

I can't say I believe this holds true of people.  We have self-created obstacles of pride, pettiness, stubbornness, and foolishness that dogs don't possess. 

We act like letting go is a choice.  Some badge of courage when we succeed.  That's bullshit, too.


If you love someone, you can never let them go, not even for a second, or they're gone forever. 
It's a cynical way to view life but it's safe. 

And well proven.

I used to think the hardest thing I've ever done is say goodbye.  Be it, the day I took Buddy to the vet to end his suffering as his cancer riddled body doomed him.  Or be it, the last night on earth for my best friend as he staggered away from my car like a wounded cowboy stumbling off into the sunset.  Or be it, those I loved but knew we were just not meant to be....

But I was wrong.

The hardest thing I've ever done involved silence. 
Those times where I wasn't afforded some closure.  
Those I simply chose to just walk away from without the kindness that goodbye allows us. 
And those moments where the universe had decided tomorrow simply wasn't in someone's cards.

Not saying goodbye is the hardest thing I've ever done.

If you love someone, don't let them go.

Anyone tells you differently, its bullshit.

Somebody told me

Somebody told me there'd be days like this.  Years like this.

Save those pictures, she said.  Someday, they will be all that's left of me.   

We were discussing this pathological fear of intimacy some have.  She, on the couch and me, across the room in a folded chair.   Lots of irony in that conversation.  Months later, we laughed about it as I was putting my pants on. 

Should have saved those pictures as the ones in my mind are slowly fading like an old polaroid. 

The spotlight always shines brightest on the socially anxious.  Only in their minds, of course.   Somebody warned me we would come to this.

Save those pictures, she said.

The written word will be a lost art.  Save my words, she said.  Save my letters, she added.

I started to hoard anything sentimental.  From anyone who loved me long enough to send something.  Or say something.  Texts, emails, pictures, cards, letters.  Save those things you cannot buy, she said.  Save those things that come from a place of love, she added.

Her hand was on my inner thigh and she leaned in.  I learned about butterflies that summer.   She looks old now.  Tired, I mean. 

Should have saved those pictures.  Youth escapes us quickly.

Somebody told me there'd be years like this.  Nights like this.   

Midnight is where the day begins.  She wore lemon.  
Save these lyrics, she said.  They will have meaning later, she added. 

I wrote a list of things to talk about just before calling.  That level of neurosis is normal at that age.  Eventually, we outgrow the discomfort.  So, I thought.  Save that innocence, she said.   Save that humility, she added.

Somebody told me we would have years like this.

We were discussing time.  Time heals all wounds.  Idle hands, devil's workshop.  Better late than never.   Time flies when having fun.  Back and forth, throwing cliches at each other.

Time is the enemy of the busy, she said.  And the lazy, I added. 

I have to go now, I told her mid-conversation.  Unforeseen irony.

Save those pictures, she said.  Someday, they will be all that's left of me, she added.

perfect world

Perfect world, all I wanted was a seamless transition.  Some hope and a little less ambition.  Do I listen to my intuition and ignore this premonition?  In a perfect world, there is no opposition. 

Who knew letting go is easier than the chase? 
Hope is either a slow death
or it disappears without a trace.
Its been one year since my fall from grace
It was the right thing to do
but something still leads me back to you.

In a perfect world, she'd love me.   Without borders or ambiguity.  With no one else above me. 

A perfect world without enemies like the gnawing notion of inadequacies and jealousies.  Where fantasies become destinies and futures never become histories.  Perfect world without all its scars and miseries.

from excitement to apprehension.  unreleased sexual tension and some lukewarm affection.  easier to walk in the other direction.
from apprehension to doubt.  easier to just get out.
from doubt to optimistic.  questioning what is realistic but in the end, we become monolithic.
from optmistic to desperate.  easier to just exit.
from desperate to pathetic.  easier to just forget it.

but something always leads me back to you.
something tells me that all of this, everything, every moment of our lives
was leading me to you.
Perfect world, tell me what I should do.

Hope is a slow death
or it disappears without a trace
Who knew letting go is easier than the chase?

Epiphany of the Unforgiven

I was fresh from a dream. 

There she was... this dark haired, quiet, almost too polite and proper, enigmatic girl.  Woman, I guess.  It always feels odd to say woman.  It's such an adult word.  Girl, well, that word just makes me sound like a dirty old man.  There she was; smiling at me, smiling at everyone, even the trees.  Her smile at me was no different than her smile at them.  So, completely disarmed with ego aside, I didn't overanalyze anything.

I think we're in vegas.  There's just a few of us.  It's me with girls.  Women, I guess.  Just friends.  All familiar faces from yesterday.  There's no sexual tension nor any hopes of fulfilling the vegas slogan of what happens here, stays here.   I think we're all song writers and poker players.  

I can't stop thinking of our host:  this mysterious dark haired woman. 

The dream moves at a fast pace.   We have breakfast in an old diner each morning.  We carry around notebooks.  That dark haired girl, woman, I guess, is always with us.  I can't stop obsessing over the little things.  Like her angelic skin.  Her eyes.  Her smile for everyone.  And my constant need to always know what everyone is thinking but especially her...  About me.

Each night is spent in her home.

The dream slows down.   The wheels in my subconscious mind come to a halt.  I'm forced to record every detail, from head to toe, of her.  And she looks familiar.  I've drempt of her before.  Many times.   I've loved her in every dream, each hypothetical scenario; good and bad.  It's always her.

At some point or a different dream, she became my religion.   It's an unfair cross for any woman to bear.   Each dream, I walk away.   And I tell myself I'm just afraid I'll nail her back up again.   A tiara made of thorns.   The imagery overwhelms me before I wake up.  Each time. 

But this dream was unlike the others.   I just listened and observed.  No agenda.  No demands.  No lavish or calculated words.

We're on our way back home.  I ask a familar face if that mysterious dark haired girl, woman, I guess, said anything about me.  The familiar face replies, "she just wanted you to tuck her in each night.  Talk to her.  And smile back."

"She forgives you.", the familiar face added.

Then I woke up.

And I lay still for a few minutes;  soaking in this fresh dream before all the details disappear as all dreams do by mid-morning.  I futilely attempt a few times to fall back asleep into that same dream.  I need more details.  Meaning.  An explanation. 

And I just stare at my ceiling, eyes wide open, and finish the dream myself.

And this self-defined "profound" epiphany overwhelms me... I tell myself that we do our best dreaming when our eyes are wide open.   Absent of truth, with an ending we choose, with the information controlled by the dreamer, guilt removed, and a false sense of closure.  And this so-called self-described moment of abstract thinking isn't shrewd or deep or profound.  And I begin to think that our dreams are more closer to reality than we care to admit.  That our minds contain the truths we fail to face when awake.

And as each theory floats around my head, before I get out of bed, I think of that dark haired girl.  Woman, I guess.

Forgiveness is always nice.  Even if its just in a dream.