Is it the paper or the keyboard that is my friend?

I’ve had two too many libations. An incoherent fragment I’ll make.

Do you know how many times I’ve hit that foreboding backspace button?

I was in Cape, driving past those houses that hold every ounce of trauma and joy. On that dark old street I drove past a house—after we broke up, before I was over it all, even though I was sleeping with your cousin, when I seizured in front of all those “friends”—and thought, ‘Are the ghosts still there?’

Is beer can shrapnel still not stomped into the ground? Is the memory of you making my face burn and then my father burning it again, for your sake, not ingrained there? The baseboards tense in terror and the walls shutter at my name screamed and then the floor catches my fall, wraps me in harsh words and handshakes, till I—who I was then—start a new life. Then someone unknown starts theirs. But do they feel that presence?

How many times will I drive past this house… no matter how many times we lied, we cheated, we loved.

I still see the same fucking house. The same fucking people. The same fucking party. I same fucking “It’ll be okay; I’ll go talk to him.” The same fucking friends looking at you in the eye wanting to be your friend but knowing in a small town like this, ignorant friends are easy but ignorant friends with ignorant parents are slightly more difficult to come by. The same fucking place. The same fucking… that made me who I am.

I had wanted this to be short. Ole scrap paper, my confidant—a withered piece torn from an unused checkbook, left too long on a dusty computer desk where he has stalked me silently—how you inspire me. 

Only God can judge me...

I understand why people get this painstakingly tattooed all over their body... They're renegades, losers, outcasts. They've been picked on and scrutinized. They've been told they're wrong. They've been shunned. I'm right there with you... but... but...

But how could God, a man/alien/invisible arrogant entity, that made us and loves us, judge us.

I have loved and I love now. There’s a blond-haired, blue-eyed rambunctious 6-year-old who breaks every toy car he gets and only eats frozen corn, cinnamon waffles and whole watermelons, that is the love of my life. He’s family, he’s blood, I tear up every time I have to leave him and I didn’t even make him.

But I love him… And never, no matter what he failed, what he questioned, what he snorted or what he killed would I ever wish to see him hurt. I would give up my eyes to hear that boy say, “Belly, I love you.”

Everyday people get hurt; people suffer for no fault of their own. Where is the God that loves them? Don’t tell me it’s divine… It’s only narcissism.

If there is a God that made me and loves me… Would he not be watching me now—writing words that contradict what “he” is in every religion—and think, ‘Look at those fingers floating above those keys as that dark independent cerebral jumble turns.’ Would he not say, “Look at those intense eyes that hold the weight of every outcast. Look at that smooth skin that hides her grief. Look at how everything’s working so beautifully and all her past has worked so well to make her the way she is.”

That’s the God I wanted to believe in, so as not to fear a meaningless death, until I realized I was only using my imagination.

Because no matter what atrocities may happen to the world, my friends, my family, myself I will not believe in evil. From Charles Manson to Ted Bundy, they were all someone’s Cole. Yeah, it seems a fuse busted, a switch was flipped, but that’s psychological not devilish. Right and wrong has been based on societal ideas and what works forever. We don’t kill people today on the regular because we know that kind of justice just doesn’t work all that well… Eventually the dad, the mom, the minions of the murdered might murder someone close to you. It’s cause and effect, it’s problem solving, it’s the evolution of a thought.

And after all this explaining of how the mysteries of God work, they say, “You’ll have your epiphany.” But no good people, it’s not a revelation it’s the realization your life is relatively meaningless. It’s no epiphany but an effectuation.

But wait…. Although your life might not have some vast all encompassing meaning that everyone sees and knows it can have meager meaning that impacts so much… it just happens a little at a time. So instead of trying to make an impression on that godhead in the clouds, why not focus on making an impression on the people around you. Our lives aren’t about working towards an afterlife; they’re about working to keep a life after ours.

Inanimate objects are much better lovers

It turns my stomach to even remember, which is an improvement that I even care. The second hand kept landing on nine every time I glanced at it, making me wonder whether I would be stuck in this moment till he was happy with my answer, but the minute hand was quickly skipping recognizing my flight time, sympathizing with me, hoping it would end soon. And it did…

I was out of town. And I can’t stress enough how good it felt. To leave in the night with no one knowing where you are or where you’re going. Oh, cold concrete and striped blacktop you are my love. I will never leave you, no matter how much some brave, disjointed emotion or warm, relaxed hands could give. I am yours and am too selfish to share.   

I parked and went inside the Super 8 around 4 AM. An Indian woman—eyes closed and joints stiff—gave me room 106. The box smelled like stale cigarettes and too little detergent. With every light turned on I still had a hard time seeing the stains on the now off-white sheets. The mattress rustled as if it were made of paper and the pillows were only their cases. The pen on the nightstand had been decapitated of its inked point.

As I scribbled I wondered how many other people like me had been here before, writing frivolously, happy, alone. I only wish to meet one of them. Maybe next time I’ll ask at the front desk, I need a room with a vagabond type who travels only with a pad of paper and a pen, mentally exhausted but relieved finally, ambiguous but readily available if you ask the correct questions, immoral but not tonight. No preference on sex or age but must be a smoker.

I slept better there than in my own bed. The farther away from my own comforts, the easier it is to sleep.

He left me with, “I’d rather be miserable.”

We only agreed once.

I wondered why we weren't together...

I know what I want, but not well enough to pin it down. I just get so overwhelmed...

"Fuck you... And you wonder why I have a hard time feeling. It's because of girls like you..."

I spent 30 minutes in my car, salt running down my cheeks smudging the black I use to try to be presentable down my chin. And not because of the above line... That was just a consequence of the rest. I could care less what one person, even a hundred people, want to judge me for.

It feels different, somehow more lonely,  when I'm crying here. Back home, I held it in until I was safely in my room, no one to ask me what was wrong, but I knew my mother and father were right downstairs in case I decided I couldn't handle everything by myself. I always did... But now I would give anything to have my mom right downstairs, sleeping, ready to wake up in a terrified wale if I snuck into her room. I'd give anything to tell my mother everything that's going on... But I couldn't even if she didn't care to know.

I was sitting in my car... ready to run.... like always. I can't explain what's going on and I don't want people to see the frail, needy me that I hide. I actually can't tell if I'm hiding it or it isn't that much a part of me... I'd like to think the latter but I won't rule out the predecessor.

I think it's just a little harder for me now... without the cutting, without the alcohol, without the drugs... to cope with all that I have going on... especially in this nearly schizo matter in my head making me crazy. It would be so easy to fall back into any of those things... I did them well for so long.

This is all most likely just a rambling mess... No description, just ranting. I'm not even going to read through it because I'll hate it all.

I'm to critical.

I'm done crying... My face is stiff from dried tears and my body aches for something more. I'll never stop, you know.

Oh sweet words... I have found you.

In the morning the rain makes me long for something more. I wonder what I'm doing--working two waitressing jobs--that I love, nonetheless--but without writing. I haven't written in so long and I need it. It hurts me not to write and it hurts me even more that I've had plenty of things to write about here but have pretended that I haven't had the time or needed a break.

At night the rain blurs every line, every light, every thought. The smudged streaks of red foreshortened on the wet black road draws me forward, like a fly towards a glowing electrified zap, while the green lights push me on. I wouldn't mind leaving this place... Just like that. It will happen soon I'm sure, so if you're here and you care to spend time I'd do it now.

The next rainy night, driving aimlessly around town, keeping both hands on the wheel--as if that means I know where I'm headed--as the steering wheel jerks through the puddles, I'll sneak out. I'll have no qualms about telling no one. They'll text me for a drink and as infinitesimal as possible I'll say, "I'm not in Columbia anymore." And that will be that... A new city, new people to learn and love, a new adventure.

At night the rain blurs everything. It's treacherous and eerie and dark... But aren't those the words I live for?

I left. I went away, right in the heat of the moment. But isn't that the life I've chosen, always leaving before I begin.

This is important. No matter what I say here, I wouldn't have stayed and I won't stay now.

I heard upon my return you had found someone and she does look beautiful with you, her dark hair always pulled back from her intense eyes and pursed lips, never smiling, never frowning, almost in a trance like this world is well below her.
I would have liked to try you out.
When we were talking the other night, those lips, a pale maroon that contrast sharply with your lack of color, were moving to the tune of films and cigarettes, artists and the untimely darkness that consumes them and most likely us one day. You're eyes like the inside of an avocado, showed the opposition of your ego. I wonder would she make the same observation.
I had left just for a short time and you alluded me.

I sat at Lodo's with my knees propped up against the wooden bar, staring into the golden red lampshades. The smoke from my mouth hung there, underneath the warm rays of phosphorus. What if I hadn't left, playing for two weeks in Europe? Would things be different? Probably but only towards their demise.
Every cold-blooded creature needs warmth every now and then, but a snake can scorch if subjected to the sun for too long.

She sat in the bar and read. Read in a bar and drank Mountain Dew. She was a little under halfway through the book, and she lingered on pages trying to concentrate with the noise. A bar on Thursday with half price drink specials is not the place to read and I'm sure she didn't care about the words but more about her perception. But I suppose that's why I keep smoking. I have an idea of myself as the artist, sitting in a seedy apartment building throwing words together while pacing with rum in one hand and a smoke in the other. We’ve talked about this. Mountain Dew just doesn't thrash me into a new world.

I dislike that you talk about her every time I'm around. She has a beautiful voice and can sing your songs. I long to sing them. I'd try if you'd let me but that would probably only make you cringe. I like that you’re talking to me and wouldn’t mind talking about her if only she wasn’t sleeping in your bed or you in hers.
You said before you left, “I hope your day gets better.” I'd cut out my tongue to tell you why it's bad and I'd cut out hers for you to make it better. I know she's lovely but I hate that you might love her. I need to get away. This illusion is driving me mad.