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.