There's always...

 Time.

October. Today.

September went out with a bang. Not really. September was entirely lackluster, highlighted by very few things that don’t eve seem that good. September was nothing like I thought it would be, but expectations rarely equal reality.

I got to hang out with my good friend tonight, Ron, which is always a blessing and far too rare, and my friend Mike invited me out to the bar with him. Ron and I get there and it turns out, what the fuck, I know Mike’s girlfriend, I’m extremely good friends with the guy Mike’s hanging out with…and I don’t know who the other girl is but I don’t really care. Small world. Really small world. Really, though…the world seems so small, but that’s because I haven’t moved away from here, and I really, really, want to move away from here.

So far away.

--

I want to get away, to go out and see no one I know, to be a stranger in a strange world. Not that I don’t love my friends, I do, but there’s people everywhere, and I can be everywhere as well. I’d like to start again and see where I end up.

--

Driving home was strange tonight. By how often I stared at the sky, I’m surprised I didn't crash. Silent lightning scorched the sky. I was listening to Explosions in the Sky on my CD player. What I listen to is always far more important than it should be, but music is everything; it’s the most beautiful thing I will ever know, the purest and most untainted, which is sort of the same thing but not.

--

Driving home, I couldn't help but think far too much, as I tend to do, and I only smiled when lightning flashed and lit the sky, when jagged bolts tore through the sky, when the sky was white, so white, and everything else was dark.

--

I’m a sucker for weather. I love storms. In my perfect world—a very fucked-up perfect world, indeed—storms would be nearly constant. Thunder and rain, a tempestuous existence broken only by peaceful moments. I think, because, I’m quite tempestuous. Not on the outside. More than ever, on the outside I’m calm and tranquil, silent usually and the opposite when I choose to be, which isn’t often. Silence, in which I think and weigh so much on a scale of my own, when inside I’m extremely tempestuous, dangerous, I think, to no one other than myself, and even to myself I’m not truly dangerous. Not in a physical sense, at least. Just mentally, in those recesses where thoughts run rampant and control is so, so fragile.

--

So when it storms I’m reminded of something, of myself, and I don’t know where to go from there.

--

And so here ends another month. I remember when I didn't know what month it was, when time blended and the date rarely mattered. And while September passed quicker than August, and while July was the slowest month of my life when June passed nearly as slowly, but better, I assume October will not be so different. This is good, though…in some ways. Time passes one day at a time, and often it doesn’t pass at all.

Letter (7)

Back to another part of the Letter series. I honestly have no idea where this is going or what I'm going to write until I start, but that's part of the fun, since it's more train of thought than anything else and what I write always surprises, if that makes sense.

I'd like to start another sort of flash fiction series on the blog, but I don't have any great ideas yet. Hopefully something good comes to mind. Possibly something incorporating my slew of fucked up dreams.

-Letter (7)-

It has rained for so many days straight that I stopped counting. At least it isn’t snow, and at least it isn’t cold. It’s not warm, but it’s something, just as everything is something, and I’m being vague, and I’m sorry for that, and for so much else.

--

You see, the rain plays music that most of us can’t hear, but I’ve been training myself for years. I figure I can’t play a real instrument, and although you can’t play the rain, you can take meaning from it and dispense that meaning into your life.

--

Our lives are made up of thousands and thousands of moments. Millions, actually. Maybe more. Most moments aren’t important, and some matter far more than others, but each moment exists on some level, and each moment, down the most miniscule, those that are not only forgotten but never remembered, each moment is a raindrop, and each moment has a certain pitch and frequency and sound. Each moment is a note. Each moment is a piece of a song, a part of music—the music of our lives.

--

I haven’t lived a very long time but I think my life is already made up of many moments. Many movements, if you will. Now more than ever the moments are adding up faster than I can keep track of, and along with the moments, the rain is falling, and falling, and falling, and I can’t avoid the raindrops.

--

Have you ever tried that? Being out in the rain but trying to weave through the drops? Remember, once, when that storm broke over us, and shortly after everything else broke?

 The song’s growing more complex, preludes and interludes and ludes I don’t even know the names of, and the repeats, my god the repeats.

--

 de capo al fine.

--

But we can’t go back to the beginning. I know that now, as I’ve always known but never wanted to admit. Andante. I can’t run, just drive across this world as I’ve been driving. Hear the music of the rain, the rhapsody of the storms, as this truly is the overture to the rest of my life.

--

And so, for now, I don’t drive. I don’t do much of anything other than sit out in the rain and listen to the song of my life. And although it’s a sad, sad song, minor in nature and even dissonant at times, it’s still a song, and it still has meaning, and that, really, is all we’re searching for.

Something Beautiful, Something Breathtaking

My blog frequency is faltering, I know. But for good reason. I’ve been extremely busy lately, and with a bunch of art commissions coming in, as well as some new excitement in my rather boring life, I’m even busier. I also need to post a new piano video, as I have two new songs I’ve been working on. But piano is rather hard for me. I live at home, sadly, and there’s always someone downstairs, some sort of noise and distraction and annoyance, so I rarely find an opportune time to play and record. Alas.

Anyway, since I’m already talking about music I might as well continue. You know those moments when you hear a song and it hits you incredibly hard? Well, maybe you don’t know. But it happens to me. There’s those songs that change your life, that you can play over and over again, and have played over and over again, and they never get old. They make you feel better—or worse—but no matter what they filled with emotion that makes you feel something—something you want to feel, need to feel.

If you’ve been following this blog you already know of The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine; it’s my favorite song and has lifted me when I needed lifting. As a musician, as well as a composer and writer, music affects me very deeply, and while I mostly listen to various sorts of metal, it may come as a surprise that all of my favorite songs, all of the songs that have hit me the hardest and always stay deep within me, all of my favorite songs are outside the metal genre.

Just incase you’re wondering, here are the songs that have changed my life, and I do mean changed my life. I love when people share their favorite music with me, so I figured I’d do the same, even if you don’t care. You don’t have to look them up and listen, but if you do you might be pleased.

The Trapeze Swinger – Iron and Wine

The Sea and the Rhythm – Iron and Wine

To Build a Home- The Cinematic Orchestra  

Crawling Back to You – Tom Petty

 --the next two songs are ambient. Surprisingly, there’s no purely piano songs.

Brighter than a Star – Gandalf

Now Night Her Course Began – Sephiroth  -- a line from Paradise Lost, so it’s even cooler

There are, of course, many other songs and bands and artists that I enjoy, but these are the songs I have listened to hundreds upon hundreds of times.

So where am I going with this seemingly pointless rant about music? Well, I may have found a new song to add to the list. It’s a very simple song, yet its elegance and amazing lyrics—poignant and non-cliché lyrics, at that—are what makes it so beautiful. It gave me that wow, numb feeling that’s so rare yet so beautiful. And like all the songs above, the first time I heard it I had tears in my eyes.

I’m strange like that. I don’t really cry for the deaths of loved ones—though maybe I should, yet so often I can’t—and I keep my emotions tightly reigned in most of the time. Now more than ever, which may be good or bad. Yet there comes those times in life when you hear something beautiful—these songs—or see something breathtaking—John Martin’s Apocalypse paintings or Henry Fuseli’s Nightmare—and you can’t help but cry. Because someone, someone like you and me, a person like every other person, created beauty out of nothing. And that, I think, is the definition of true beauty. It’s partly why I write, why I compose, why I paint, why I want to do so much yet seemingly do not have enough time to master any of it.

And, so, I suppose I should link the song I heard yesterday and absolutely fell in love with. Admittingly, it’s partly due to personal reasons, but those are the best songs—the ones we can relate to on an extremely personal level. I linked it yesterday via facebook, and so I’ll do it again, as it did inspire this blog.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nZGv8VTBVE

From Outside

I had an incredibly vivid and disturbing nightmare today, during a nap when I fell asleep while editing. However, when I was out tonight and tried to retell my nightmare, I realized how not frightening and silly it sounded, how it barely resembled a nightmare and how I couldn’t even explain it without going on and on. And, so, I’m going to rewrite my nightmare as a short piece of fiction to see if I can better capture the essence, as my written words are far more elegant and explanatory than anything I will ever say.

Some of the dream I have already made sense of—the setting, as last night I watched two episodes of Vampire Diaries, and of course the overall sentiment of being alone and discarded, as that’s something many of us fear and worry about, often more so than we should, and the appearance of certain items in the dream, as they came up in discussion late into the night. The rest, however, is beyond me, as so much is.

Truly, the dream was feeling more than anything else, of knowing I was alone and could never escape the solitude, that I was destined to wander, alone, forever, and I couldn’t break away from the hold it had on me. Even now the feeling is bothersome and yet I cannot explain it nearly as well as I should.

--

From Outside

We arrived deep into the night, passing into the foyer of a great mansion, a building unlike any of us have ever seen, yet alone entered. Gothic inside, too much like a castle ripped out of the ancient times and thrown into ours, the estate of a lord, a duchess, a count of depthless darkness. A long hall which a narrow red rug traveled down, to where the hall split into two—left and right. The ceiling, vaulted, arched a hundred feet above us as the darkness of night passed through the skylights and dimmed the flickering light of torches in sconces along the walls.

We thought ourselves dressed for the occasion. Suits, ties, vests, black shoes polished to reflect the torchlight, but the attendants merely shook their heads and stared at us with their empty, unresponsive eyes. It’s those eyes that still haunt me, the vacancy within them, the eyes of soulless husks with a single purpose: to allow entry, to prepare visitors.

We obeyed their commands and donned the long blue robes handed to us. Mine was longest of all, I remember, the robe ending at my feet and making it difficult to walk without tripping over the thick, burdensome fabric. The others had no problem; their robes fit perfectly, seemed tailor to their frames while mine merely draped off me.

Six, or seven, or eight of us in all—remembering is difficult—and although none of us understood the reasons for these robes or what we were getting ourselves into, we didn’t complain or ask questions. We smiled, nervously, as so many of my smiles tend to be, and nodded in acceptance. We had come this far; we could not turn around now.

“You will be chosen one by one,” the attendant said, his voice as empty as his eyes. “You will walk the halls and the escorts will choose you and you will be seated and it will be yours.”

We again nodded as if we understood.

The attendants drew the red ropes aside and allowed us deeper into the foyer, down the hall. So much is blur. A restaurant, I thought we were going to a restaurant, or was it a hotel? A concert? Chosen for what? Memories are so hazy. The most important things always go misunderstood.

Vividness returned after we left the attendants behind, for good. At least for me. I don’t know what’s become of the others, if they were destined for better lives, if they were meant to find someone here, or something, or live happily ever after. But that never happens, does it? And all the most famous love stories end in despair.

I recall seeing a notebook lying on the floor near the beginning of my journey. A notebook, I had thought. Why is such a thing here? But now I know.

We began down the stone halls. The lavishness of the foyer immediately vanished, replaced by gray stone austerity and thick wooden doors to both sides. Women—they resembled vampires at first glance, and maybe they were—stood outside the doors dressed in tight black leather, all with black hair in curls flowing down their backs. These women, these escorts, approached members of my group one by one, smiling their captivating smiles and drawing my friends away. One by one. One by one. It all happened so suddenly, so quickly, that it took me a few moments to realize I was alone.

The others were chosen for greater things. They were accepted, and perhaps loved? I still don’t know how love plays a role here, but it does, somehow, deep down.

I’m still walking. Sometimes, outside the rooms I can see through the walls, and there’s happiness inside. I can’t explain what I see. Outlines of people, living shadows, warm colors, emotions felt through time and space. Pleasure, joy, so many real emotions that I cannot experience from outside these walls and wooden doors.

 And so I walk alone.

A time ago, near the start of this, near the point that I realized my solitude, one of the escorts approached. But she wasn’t like the others. I couldn’t see her face. She was little more than a blur, a cloud of shadows with the figure of a woman deep within. She said, “You shouldn’t have to walk alone. I’ve walked alone for so long here. I can walk with you, if you want.”

I can’t recall my answer. I think I would have accepted her, as no one wants to be alone, but the memories fade and blur and so much is forgotten, and at the end of it all I still walk alone. She’s here, somewhere, wandering as well, and so many others are here as well. We’ve either found our destinations, where we should be, or we’re wandering alone, somehow avoiding each other through every step, somehow missing opportunity after opportunity.

So I Went to Montreal and...

...had a ton of fun. In short, Montreal is amazing. In long, I will tell you why and what I did over the course of my vacation. Not everything can be shared due to legal purposes—funny and true!—but for the most part everything worthwhile will be shared.

Tyler, Joe, and I leave early Thursday morning, from Connecticut to Canada on a straight course. The ride is nothing special. For the most part I text my friend who thankfully entertains me, and Kilgore (Tyler) and I listen to music. Classical music on the last stretch of the drive, which adds a nice element to the scenic upstate New York.

Let’s jump ahead to crossing the border, where I met the biggest bitch I will ever meet. Of course I forget my passport in the trunk, so I jump out and snag it to present it to the border guard woman person—she’s the enormous bitch. I hate her. I forever will. She says, in her bitchy voice, “Why did you bring your passport?” Of course I have no idea how to respond to this, so I stutter and think. “To give it to you?” I ask, which is apparently the answer she wanted, as he nods arrogantly. She then asks us a slew of questions—where we’re going, why, the hotel’s address?!, how long we’re staying, and more irrelevant questions. It takes us like five minutes to find the hotel’s address, and all the while she just stares at us. Really. Hugest bitch ever; you had to hear her voice.

I should have hit on her and see how far that got me, if I would have landed in Canadian jail.

We finally arrive in the city of Montreal and promptly drive around in circles for awhile, not realizing we passed our hotel once, and nearly twice. We then, of course, park in the wrong parking garage and have to switch to another one beneath the hotel, in what resembles an end of the world bunker. Our hotel is also on the edge of Asia Town. Yes, Asia Town in Montreal, and even inside the hotel is quite Asian. There’s an enormous and elaborate koi pond with bridges and everything.

Later we go out to eat and locate beer, and it is then I realize two things. One: I’m horribly underdressed in this city; everyone looks like gold. Two: 29 out of 30 women in Montreal are beautiful, and I’m not exaggerating. This trend continues throughout the trip, as we all notice that women in Montreal are stupidly attractive. I really should move to Montreal, by the way. I’m still stunned.

Also, we find six packs of beer, which is of the most importance. Phew.

I should probably tell you the reason why we went to Montreal. For myself, there’s a few reasons. One: a Grand Prix in Magic the Gathering, a card game that my friends and I play. Two and more importantly: I’m trying to expand my painting business right now in a big way. With acrylic arts I do alterations to Magic cards. It’s a fairly lucrative business and a ton of fun, so I brought my art supplies and painted for many hours at the convention, selling a fair amount of my art. Three and most importantly: I love traveling with friends and I’ll do it at every opportunity, to anywhere. I save just about all my money for traveling expenses.

So it’s Thursday night, our first night, and of course we decide to go out and get drunk while meeting up with a few friends. We drink towers of beer at the first bar—towers about four feet tall, nine liters of beer or something, and leave for another bar, as we want to see a lot of the city.

 At this point I’m still entirely sober and just full on beer. One guy is already very drunk, and others are rather drunk as well. I’m very silent at this point, as I’m slipping into one of my extremely introspective states, just thinking about myself in relation to the world and the people of it, and how drunken people act, and how I have now stopped myself from reaching that absurd and annoying point, and how Montreal, like most cities, is quite fantastic, and how today has been a very good day, from the car ride up to now, and so on.

And so we leave that bar in search of, of course, a strip club. However, one member of our group insists that we must get in for free, drink for free, have free VIP, and so on and so on—of course no bouncers agree to this and we look like silly Americans. So we’re on the street somewhere in Montreal haggling with bouncers about stripper prices and whatnot, and the entire situation is quite hilarious, until everyone passes up a very good offer into a strip club. Passing up good offers is not hilarious. However, Kilgore and I are sick of waiting so we agree to go inside.

This is my first strip club anywhere, ever. Yes, I suppose I’m rather old for a first timer, but I didn’t think I would really enjoy it, and I was right. Strip clubs are more depressing than anything else, and more than not the strippers aren’t even that attractive. All that, and I’m quite odd; I think I prefer talking to a girl more so than watching her dance on a stage. If I can talk to you for hours and find pleasure in it, then chances are I like you very much. If I can’t talk to you, then waste of time. But I’m a strange person and strip clubs have never been for me. That said, I’ll go to them.

The strip club: the first thing I see is a young gentleman laying on stage having his ass whipped by a belt. Great start. Kilgore and I sit off to the side and I spend $18 on bad beer. Even better start. The guy is claiming how he’s a marine and belts don’t hurt him.

Ugh, what?

 Other than the one blond, the strippers aren’t all great, and ironically, the most attractive girl in the club is the waitress. She was very nice. Watching the somewhat-pretty-half naked women dance on stage, I’m still entirely introspective rather than just enjoying the moment. Alas, I think too deeply and too often, even when I’m just barley buzzed. Strippers come over to us and solicit Kilgore while completely ignoring me, which I don’t mind but find humorous. He’s dressed far better than I am. I’m in a hoody promoting a metal band and black pin-stripe shorts. One stripper is actually very pleasant to talk to, but all in all Kilgore and I leave rather quickly, so as not to be separated from our friends. We have no idea where they are at this point.

Awhile later the entire group somehow ends up inside a dive bar, where we stay for at least two or three hours. Yes, a dive bar in Montreal. Most of the group is quite drunk. I’m 7 beers and 6 shots deep and very much sober, for some reason, but I don’t mind all that much. Mostly I just sit in the back with my friend, Brian, as we discuss things and watch drunk people make fools out of themselves. All the while this intense dubstep insanity music is playing and really fucking with my brain. I feel like I should be on ecstasy, a lot of it—I’ve never touched the stuff but still!—to be sitting in this bar, as the music is that intense. At some point Zelda-dubstep starts blaring, which is hilarious since we’re a bunch of nerds in a dive bar and Zelda music is playing, and apparently the bartender is also a nerd, and somewhat attractive, but I’m not going to waste my time trying to talk to a bartender. I rather just, well, do nothing.

Home at some time near 4am, I think.

Friday

I have nightmares due to the intensely loud dubstep and alcohol. I also partially freeze to death, as I’m on the floor beside an open window without a blanket, so I sleep in my hoody—I do this the entire vacation. Also, to fall asleep each night I put The Sea and the Rhythm on repeat on my Ipod. The song’s by Iron and Wine and probably my second favorite song of all time. Here’s a link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyiSg_iNLSI

Watch it.

As we came here to play Magic, we go to the convention center and play Magic much of the day. I won’t go into great detail, as I’m sure it’s boring for most readers. Let’s just say this weekend wasn’t my best.

There’s really not much to talk about for Friday, as we have to be up early Saturday for the big tournament, the Grand Prix.

For lunch Kilgore and I attend a noodle place. We’re sitting next to a group of six older women, from 30-50 I believe, and I have a grand idea of making them fall in love with Kilgore and I, escorting us around the city and buying us tons of gifts and perhaps using us as sex slaves. However, Kilgore doesn’t seem too into this idea, so it’s quickly abandoned.

The best part of the day was me painting at the venue and having other players appreciate my art. I’ll soon explain.

The worst part of the vacation, by far: dinner Friday night. For some reason we choose to eat the sketchiest, cheapest place in all of Montreal. I order a chicken burger and fries. I don’t know what meat I ate, but my god it was not chicken. Not at all. I think it was pure cartilage. And the fries we covered in a horrible, horrible gravy and revolting cheese. Even now I shiver about it. Really, by far the worst meal I have ever eaten. I think it made me sick. Just thinking about it now disgusts me.

Saturday

We wake up early for the tournament. I promptly do horrible, drop out, and set up my paint station at a random table near a fair amount of traffic so people stop, observe, look at my cards, and buy from me.

My plan very much succeeds. Lots of people stop by and look, and I talk to them about painting and Magic and whatnot. A few people buy my cards, which is always exciting, not for the money but because they appreciate it enough to spend a rather hefty amount of money for cards that do not normally cost so much. But hey, art is expensive.

A few professional artists are also at the venue. RK Post, Chippy, and a few others, and more than once random people come up to me and say, “Hey, are you Chippy?”, “Are you RK Post?”, “Are you the resident artist at this venue?” While I wish I could get away with the lies, I tell them the truth, that I’m just a card painter here to sell my work, but yes, I am an artist, would you like to see my stuff? Regardless, I was humbled and humored at people asking me if I was a famous artist.

Later on we drink more, play more cards, and eat dinner at an amazing Mexican restaurant. Seven of us attend, and we eat a ton of high quality Mexican food in Montreal. The margaritas were especially tasty.

Sunday

I wake up before my roommates and head to the venue, where I paint for ten straight hours. Yesterday people commissioned me to paint them cards, so I have to finish those and others for my friends back at home. It all equals a ton of painting, and I finish what I have to finish and make some monies.

And now, for the grand finale, I will detail the disaster that was Sunday night. Disaster may be an understatement.

We’re in our friends’ hotel room, drinking as usual. My one friend insists that he can chug a 1/4^th of a bottle of vodka. Of course, for hilarity’s sake, we insist he cannot, knowing he will attempt to prove us wrong. He downs the vodka, surprisingly, and then a beer, and I know he will soon be wasted, as he’s a very small guy. My equally knowledgeable friends also know this, and we want to see how far we can take this, so we all start doing shots of Dewar’s scotch—a revolting drink but at least it fucks you up. And these aren’t normal shots. It’s more like three shots at once, so in about thirty minutes my friend is hilariously drunk. He keeps hugging everyone, insisting that he loves them. At one point he tackles me off the bed, into the gap between the bed and the wall. He also keeps calling some girl from home, until we take away his phone to save him the $15 a minute. We’re good friends. Really.

The funniest part was when Kilgore and I returned to the room, only to open the door into my friend’s head; he’s laying on the floor staring at his phone, talking at it but not into it.

Realizing we cannot take our friend out to a bar, as he’s far, far too drunk and we’ll all likely be arrested, we attempt to bring him back to his hotel. A horrible mistake. Our friend can’t stand, or walk, and sometimes he tries to run away from us only to fall into bushes or nearly into the road, and people are staring. A lot of stares, but thankfully we avoid the police until my friend almost blacks out on the street. It’s then a few of us—not me included—realize we must take him back to the hotel room, as the walk is too far and he’s too drunk and we’ll all soon be in jail.

So the rest of us, five in total, head to my drunken friend’s hotel to contact the people’s he’s staying with, to tell them that he’s fine and not dead, yet. Of course we fail at this as well, and by this time it’s too late to eat a good dinner on our last night, so we settle for horrible pizza.

And now the rest of the night begins. Such a long, horrible yet humorous night.

We randomly meet up with another group of six people, I think, and they want to go to an Absinthe bar. While I hate absinthe, I agree since it’s something to do. However, two of our friends return to their hotel, leaving me, Joe, and Kilgore along with this new group.

So we start walking to this bar, which we’re told is close. And we walk, and walk, and walk, and walk, uphill, and walk, and walk. Joe and I make jokes and complain the entire time, as it’s a fucking long walk and Sunday night, our last night, is going straight to hell. Walking. Caring for drunken people, and walking. Honestly, hours of walking. We’ve done nothing else and now it’s 1am or close to it.

But the grace of the gods we finally arrive at this bar…which is clearly a date scene and not a group of seven dudes and a girl scene, but oh well, I’m fine with anything. I’m very easy to please, and if not I’m pleased, I’ll just stay quiet.

 So we all order absinthe, and it’s on fire and whatnot, and the sugar is melting, and for 140 proof alcohol, it does nothing for more. Sigh! Just a buzz would be nice at this point. But here’s the good part. The waitress never asked for money, so my $12.00 absinthe is free. I win! Eventually I order a beer and tip her $4.00, since my first drink as free and all.

I’m a nice guy.

We agree to leave this bar rather soon, since it really is all couples. Joe and I are still rather frustrated at this point, since we’re still entirely sober and it’s nearing 2am. Horrible night! The absinthe isn’t real absinthe, and I’m almost entirely sure it’s watered down, since I should at least feel something. But I don’t. No wormwood in this shit..

So we leave two people at the bar, the nice couple amongst us, and we go on a late night quest to find breasts at a strip club. We pass many, and they all look horrible or closed. It is, of course, 2am on a Sunday night, so we’re going to get the B-Team of Strippers, and my god that’s what we eventually get, at around 2:20am.

I don’t even remember the name of the fucking club, just that I hated it…apart from one incredibly hot stripper who was barely on stage.

Here’s what happened. We sit for about 15 minutes and no one is dancing. Somehow my Coors Light cost more than a Corona and Stella. What the fuck?

Wait, what? Yes, there’s no strippers dancing, just standing around talking and being jerks. One stripper looks about 4 months pregnant, and another, who sadly dances, is a horribly fat Asian. I had to look away then; I almost fell asleep. All the while I’m talking to my friend, who I just talked to the first time about 40 minutes earlier, and he’s a cool guy so at least that makes the awful strip club bearable. We’re there nearly an hour, maybe more, and at least 45 minutes of that is stripperless. I’m so angry at this point, and when the strippers come up to solicit our group with lap dances and whatnot, they of course avoid me entirely. So apparently strippers are afraid of me, or intimidated by my roguish good looks and they want me to strip for them. Yes, that must be it.

We leave at 3am, when it’s closing, and wander home, depressed and angry at the night. At least it was a humorous night, if you can find humor in that the night couldn’t have possibly gone worse unless one of us was arrested.

And that’s about it.

All the Cool Kids are Now Nerds

Tomorrow I’m going to Canada for nerd activities and debauchery. I enjoy being a nerd; in fact, I welcome and promote it. This reminds me of a conversation I had with a customer today. She was 26 (I ID’d her) and quite attractive. Seeing as how lonely I’ve been since no one loves me—not melodramatic at all!—and that I’m rather solitary for the rest of the day, I tend to strike up conversations at work quite often. Here’s how this conversation went.

She hands me her credit card. It’s a hello kitty credit card.

“Hello Kitty,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m a nerd. Thanks for reminding me.”

“That’s okay, I’m a nerd too.”

“No, really, I’m huge a nerd. I’m not joking.”

“Me either.”

“Do you go to Comiccon to read comic books?”

“I’ve been to Comiccon, yes.”

“How many times?”

“Once, a long time ago, but I go to Lunacon every year and plan on going to many more cons. I love them.”

“I’ve been three times and I dress up.”

“That’s not nerdy, that’s awesome. What do you dress up as?”

“Something different every year. Wonderwoman, Spidergirl, this year we did World of Warcraft outfits.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re just amazing?”

“No, I’m really nerdy, you have no idea.”

At this point she seemed rather flustered, which I find endearing.

I recall one girl I was quite smitten with being horribly flustered while just being in my presence, all nervous and tongue-tied at times. I found this to be the most attractive thing in the world, and ironic, since I was very much in the same boat, which is beyond unusual for me. I’m not sure what that means—that I can talk to strangers better than I can talk to someone I really care about, but I’m sure it means something. I just don’t know what, since it’s never happened before. But alas, I’m getting off topic again.

At this point I was about to tell her, the girl from the package store, “Well I’m going to Canada to play Magic the Gathering for the entire weekend. I also write fantasy novels and have my own business painting magic cards. I’m pretty sure you can’t be more nerdy than that.” However, my spotlight was stolen, as my coworker needed my help and attractive nerdy girl left.

The experience reminded me that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and so with the clichés. I wouldn’t have thought her to be a nerd, and I could tell she didn't believe me, that she thought I was just trying to force a similarity between us. I suppose my roguishly good looks and sculpted muscles (cough, cough) did not portray a nerd-like persona. But that, of course, is because nerdy gentleman are always stereotyped as either insanely fat or deathly skinny…actually this is true for the most part, as all stereotypes are, which is why I stereotype everyone…as I pointed out in a blog post a few days ago. You should read that if you haven’t already.

Anyway, I’ll post again when I return from Canada. I’ll be sure to jot down some notes and record the more amazing parts.

The Best Thing Ever Written--And also Letter (6)

I haven’t blogged much lately. Mostly I’ve been editing my novel in anticipation to start shipping it out to agents and publishers. I’ve put all of that stuff on hold for awhile. I’ve read my novel three times now. The first two were rather quick reads, fixing major things and adding major things, making sure the book flows and that passages are not too long and whatnot. You know, busy shit. The most recent edit has been extremely slow and tedious and cutthroat. But I think I have something good here, something better than anything I’ve ever written, on a different level, even—dare I say it?!—a more literary level. I am, of course, bias, seeing as it’s mine, and it’s by far the most personal long piece of work I’ve ever written. Apocalyptic, distopic, and yes, extremely personal. Of course I’m bias! Of course it’s the best thing ever written.

But that’s the beauty of writing. There’s always of piece of ourselves in the writing. We write ourselves into everything.

So I’ve been sacrificing the blog a bit lately due to how much I’ve been editing, as well as working paying jobs and whatnot.

I’ve been wanting to brainstorm ideas, I have, but all my creativity and passion is invested so deeply within this novel. It has taken control of my life, as is usual with my books, but to a different level. I know it’s one source of my constant nightmares, and I know I’m partially to blame for that, for writing what I’m writing, but that’s okay. More than okay. You’re supposed to be close to your writing, supposed to invest yourself within it, become part of it, even live it. It’s supposed to possess you. Bret Easton Ellis agrees, and he’s more famous than I am.

Like I’ve said, my mom keeps asking me what’s wrong, why do you look so down—I really don’t feel that down, which is what I tell her—and so, when I finish editing this novel and print it out, I’m going to throw it at her and tell her to read it. Maybe, then, she will understand some of it—the things I can’t say with words, as I’m really not all that skilled with words. Spoken words, that is. I tend to think too fast, then speak too fast, and get excited. I must slow myself down. I hope I’m skilled with written words, or else I’ve just wasted most of my life.

Here’s another letter written by someone to someone else.

Letter (6)

The car stopped somewhere west of Michigan, in one of those northern states that seem unpopulated but aren’t. There’s snow here, and the snow was falling that day, covering the road so that I shouldn’t have been driving. But you know me; I make poor decision, I do what I shouldn’t and rarely regret it. I’m rash, blunt, quick to act and quick to admit my mistakes but be unable to fix them.

--

I stopped along the roadside and needed to get out of the car. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, having not seen a light for hours and preferring it that way.

--

Remember, once, when you said how people bother you? How you prefer your solitude and silence and sometimes you can’t stand another living soul? You just want to be alone, to think in silence and live in silence. And remember how I said that I’ve always been that way? That I love people, I do, but I hate them at the same time. Most people, that is. And that I’ve always been a loner, many friends but still preferring to sit alone and ponder alone and fall deeply within my own thoughts? Alone. Because you and I , people like us, we’re meant to be alone with our thoughts buried so deep. Remember these things, and how I said them to you, once?

--

Or did you forget? Did you make yourself forget?

--

I stopped along the roadside and climbed over the stonewall and entered a field bright by moonlight shining against snow. The sky was cloudless, the night filled with countless stars. You remember those. Do you?

--

I walked and walked through the snow. Now you’re calling me a moron. Alone, at night, walking through a field, through snow up to my knees, coldness soaking into my boots and through my jeans. The stars shone so bright, illuminating a lone tree deep within the field. Maybe miles away, but I had nowhere else to go, nothing to lose.

--

Really, I’m not crazy or anything like that. But the greatest rewards lie at the end of the greatest risks. Nothing great is ever obtained easily. And the clichés continue, so on and so on. And we both hate clichés.

--

And I arrived at the tree and I didn't know why. I was miles away from anything. The hike was longer than I thought, the field enormous and empty other than me and the tree. The tree, and its sprawling branches bare of leaves, its cold dark bark and shadows lengthening across the star-touched snow. Your star-touched eyes. The tree with its words carved deeply into its flesh, our sins carved so deeply into our flesh, so deep and clear I couldn't have overlooked them. I couldn't have overlooked you. Not ever. I think, in some ways, you gave me sight.

--

There are messages in this world for us to find and to take meaning from. Life isn’t as random as it seems. When the worlds help you, you must accept that help and be thankful for it. We all need as much help as we can get. We’re all lost, so lost, until we find each other. But look at us. Lost, again.

--

Hold on, the tree said. Give it time, the tree said. There’s always time, the tree said. The only moments that matter are the moments that make you wait, and wait, and wait…and wait.

A Diary of a Young Man -- that doesn't sound masculine in the least.

I planned to write something new tonight. Or, to finish something old that I started awhile ago when I was substituting. It’s a piece of short fiction where the events take place backwards, sort of. Time is moving backwards, at least. It’s hard to explain, and amazingly hard to write. Like I said, I planned to come home directly after work and start writing it, but then some stuff came up.

First, my car brakes died on the way home. Being the stubborn and crazily suicidal man I am, I decided I would drive the rest of the way home without brakes. Luckily it was only two or three miles and my back brakes still functioned very minimally. However, I live on the hill next to Buttonwoods—I’m sure some readers know where that’s located—so I had to drive past my driveway and turn around, since I couldn't stop.

Then my good friend Dylan called me to go to Wendy’s, and we went, and we spoke for an hour plus. You know, about life and whatnot, and that was good and got me thinking even more.

I’ve been very introspective lately, even more so than usual. I think, perhaps, because I’ve been reading Anne Frank’s A Diary of a Young Girl. My very good friend of mine, a term I use when I perhaps shouldn’t at this point, said it was her favorite book, and when people—people who read often and who’s opinion I value—tell me that “enter title here” is their favorite book, I read it. She read my favorite books, so now I read one of her’s. Maybe we’re even now, or something?

It’s a remarkable book, by the way. A quote from it really got me thinking. Here it is. “I wonder whether you can tell me why it is that people always try so hard to hide their real feelings?...Why do we trust one another so little? I know there must be a reason, but still I sometimes think it’s horrible that you find you can never really confide in people, even in those who are nearest to you.”

This is incredibly true for most people, even for myself to a degree. I don’t share my secrets and much of my personal life, although this blog somewhat does that for me.

Overall, I’ve told only one person most of my secrets, my desires and my history, my life and myself, my real self, and I don’t even talk to that person anymore. Strange, that. It takes a lot for me to open up; I’m not sure what made me do it that one time(s). It was…miraculous and surreal, the sort of thing that can make someone wonder forever.

It may seem like I write everything on this blog, but that’s not at all true.

Anyway, my introspective self was thinking about last Saturday—I know, an entire week has passed—and how I spent the entire night in a bar, not drinking. You see, I really do detest bars. Almost everyone in the bar is putting on a show for everyone else, and often it’s a drunken, classless and sadly comical show. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy debauchery as much as anyone else, but I enjoy it with friends rather than strangers. At a bar almost everyone you meet is fake, putting on a false face for everyone else, trying to impress and display themselves.

I’m aware that I’m stereotyping, but I’ll return to the resonating words Steve Almond told me—he’s a successful and amazing author who I had the pleasure of meeting and having one on one editing/brainstorming sessions with. He told me that it’s my job—and every authors’ job—to observe people and stereotype everyone, as everyone can be included in a certain group/demographic. So, basically, judge everyone prematurely and then see if they exceed your standards, or if you don’t talk to them, just stereotype them from a distance. Unfairly, but oh well.

 I assume I belong to the brooding, upbeat yet nihilistic world-loather/arty writer piano player painting guy/funny and witty and crazy guy. Okay, I have no idea where I belong.

The “really fucked-up” group.

So, with about ten of my friends, we ventured out for Scott’s birthday, which I would be experiencing entirely sober, at The Harp and Dragon—a fine establishment in downtown Norwich. Cough.

And of course there’s tons of stereotypes as I begin to people watch. There’s the bro guys, sporting their backwards hats and each wearing three Polos, there’s the group of ugly girls trying to get any guy to notice them, there’s the extremely hot but amazingly stupid girl in the tiniest dress possible so that you can see her entire thonged ass—really, why are you wearing that dress at this bar?—there’s the most awkward couple ever on their first or second awkward date—really though, this couple blew my mind and gave me so much hope. The guy was so doofy looking, to an extent I cannot explain, that his movements alone were awkward, and the girl was easily the best looking girl in the entire bar, and you could tell by her general demeanor and facial expressions that she was horribly bored with this date, but trying nonetheless, as she’s apparently nice and lonely and wanting someone, and yes, many things go through my mind while I’m people watching—there’s the dude with hugely muscled arms and an extremely tight shirt that does not hide his protruding beer gut, and then there’s the group of very good friends who happen to be somewhat of nerds, a group which I belong to. I am, of course, a nerd.

The night goes on. I’m talking to my friends and some random people whose conversation I somehow became part of. This is one aspect I do enjoy about bars, and it’s even better when I don’t drink; conversations are so easy to enter, and when I enter a conversation, I tend to take charge of it, as I like talking and I have important things to say. Well, not so much the important part. Maybe I just like being heard.

I’m also horribly annoyed with my cellphone all night, as it’s a piece of shit and constantly turning off on me. I open it to text, and it turns off. I close it, and it turns off. Fuck you. While I’m talking in real life, I’m also having some strange text conversation with my friend, Victoria—all our conversations tend to be…absurd. Yet my phone won’t cooperate, so I just start banging it against things and somehow that fixes it.  

I’m also ordering a lot of water and complaining about how hydrated I am. This makes strangers laugh, so I repeat it often.

I also see an old high school teacher of mine and a girl I swear I once saw in a porno. She was amazing.

At some point late into the night two seats open up so I immediately sit down, as my legs and ass hurt from doing too many squats at the gym. However, the girls who once occupied the seats eventually return, like fifteen minutes later, and of course I see this as a conversation opener, so I begin talking to these two people. One is not at all my type, and the other is okay, but I’m not here to meet anyone anyway. I just like to talk with strangers and find out about people.

So I begin talking to them, and two of my friends join in, and it’s apparent that the prettier one might fancy me, as she’s very intent on talking to me and whatnot, and by my random nature and that I’ll say anything, the conversation flows easily and without any direction or sense. She doesn’t seem to care, so that’s good. Somehow we get to talking about poetry and writing and she demands I invent, on the spot, a haiku for her. I, of course, fail miserably, but I really don’t try either. She’s not quite worth an on the fly haiku. I feel like that would involve some sort of strong emotion, perhaps even love.

Eventually the two women leave, and my friends, per usual, begin ragging on me because I did not get her number. I, per usual, shrug it off and say, somewhat meanly I suppose, that she’s not up to my standards. I am quite shallow and brutally honest and blunt, and I admit this freely and frequently. My friends have pointed it out numerous times now, complaining about me and how I so freely and often reject women. I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one of my friends thinks I’m gay.

It is a fault and blessing, to be honest. Some foolish people claim that looks do not matter, when they are almost always the most important thing…initially. Not at all in the long run. You’re not going to see someone you find unattractive and be like, “Yeah, I’m totally going over there to talk with her.” Physical appearance is what draws two people together, it is the initial spark and fireworks, and I’m fine with that part, I’m physically attracted to many people.

Quite honestly, eyes are what I’m most attracted to. I know that sounds strange.

It’s the other aspects of people—non-physical aspects—I judge so harshly, and, again, perhaps unfairly when I have many faults. You see, I consider myself smart, but more so, extremely witty and quick. I’m also not at all modest, but I don’t talk like a conceded jackass.

More than anything, I value intelligence and sharpness. If I may be interested in someone, and then she says, “I hate books”, or “Ewww, reading”, or is clearly a moron for some other reason, I immediately forget about that person. I’ll just walk away. Also, I hate dumb people, and dumb people belong with other dumb people. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You can tell when two dumb people are a couple. I know it’s mean, but I don’t care. Life is easier for them. Intelligent people belong with other intellects; that’s just how life works.

So yes, I’m highly attracted to intelligence and wittiness far more than anything else—along with physical features, of course. And that’s not me being shallow. I very much prefer people who care about their appearance, as I care about mine very much, and perhaps that is to the point of shallowness. Oh well.

So where am I going with this? I’m not entirely sure. I just found it humorous how my friends ragged on me, even made fun of me and called me a moron, and then went on to tell my other friends how “Schrage had this chick hitting on him and he didn't care, again.” And then the Anne Frank quote added another layer to everything I’ve been thinking about lately—how everyone puts on a show, especially in the “dating scenes”—scenes that I’ve found downright dreadful from the get go, and how having absurdly high standards is perfectly fine, even to the point of loneliness.

At least you then know exactly what you’re looking for and you’re sure when you find it.

"Smile"

           

I feel like I could write forever tonight. I could, but I won’t. Nor do I know where to begin.

I suppose I’ll begin with what I just did—arrive home from work and eat dinner while watching the beginning of Californication season three. I really do love the show. It’s so crudely and shockingly hilarious while being one of the saddest shows I have ever seen, and I have a bizarre fondness for sad things: see all of my favorite books and movies. Plus, it has, by far, my favorite quote ever from any form of media. I even wrote a blog about it, as you may remember: A Quote I Didn’t Write. It still gets to me. A lot a lot. Even after watching the scene near twenty times.

Speaking of sad things, I guess I appear very sad to people, or at least strangers…and my mother who keeps pestering me for some reason. At first I thought it was just an aberration: a woman telling me I have sad eyes awhile ago, my boss routinely asking me what’s wrong when I should be the one asking him that question. But today was sort of an eye opener, and maybe not a good one.

I was getting dressed for work in the gym’s locker-room as I do every day. Today a much older man, probably in his 70’s, who I’ve seen many times comes up to me and says, “Where’s your smile? Why don’t you ever smile? Is something wrong?”

I’m immediately taken off guard for multiple reasons. One, that he thinks I never smile, and maybe I don’t at the gym, I don’t know, and two, that he actually cares enough to ask if something is wrong. And I really didn’t make matters better, since I told him “I don’t know where my smile is, I guess it’s missing.” I’m aware that I’m not a smiley person. He cracked a few jokes, and eventually I did smile, which he promptly pointed out. Still, it unnerved me. My lack of smiles doesn’t mean something is wrong or that I’m horribly depressed or something along those lines—I certainly don’t act in such a way. It’s just, really…I suppose I don’t truly know. I don’t think I was ever the sort of person who went around smiling to begin with. When I think, and I tend to think constantly, I don’t do so while smiling like a moron. Maybe I frown when I’m deep within my thoughts, and considering my nature, that’s just about always.

Then my boss’s sister asked me why I wasn’t smiling, which annoyed me. I know it shouldn’t have, since she just wanted to know if something was wrong, but still. I’m not explaining myself well, I know. I think that’s because the entire situation confuses me to no end. I act happy enough and am extremely conversational. I mean, this weekend I had very long conversations with complete strangers, and tonight, working, I sparked up more conversations, since I like to converse, especially with attractive customers who come in the store. Now that I think about it, another guy at the gym has asked me multiple times why I look so unhappy…but he’s creepy, very creepy, and doesn’t matter.

And yet, while I say all of this, while I proclaim my ignorance, I’m entirely conscious that something is wrong. Well, maybe not wrong. Not to the point of concern, I think, but I’m aware that I’ve changed in ways that cannot be unchanged. I’m a different person from who I once was…at some point? But that’s just life. Things happen. People change.

As an anecdote, I’d like to explain how my boss has been introducing me to strangers at work. “This is Mike Schrage, he graduated from UConn with honors, he’s written seven novels so he’s just here waiting to get published and when he’s famous he’ll toss me a bone, he’s on creatine, that’s why he’s so jacked and massive.” This, more or less, has been his spiel to his friends lately. I then have to explain my writing and also insist that I am not quite jacked, though I am getting there! Sometimes my boss goes on to tell people how I’m fucked up and will one day  go postal and kill him. One day he talked me up to a female customer who I’m somewhat of friends with…he just kept going on and on about how great I am. Great, and insane. He always makes sure to add insane. I’m rather certain that he’s afraid of me, for some reason. At least it’s apparent that I’ve gained muscle.

On another note, I like this weather. Not the constant downpours, but the temperatures. Since I have no one to go to the beach with, I don’t care that summer is over. Now I get to drive at night with my windows down and a hoody on, with the hood up, which is what I did tonight and will continue to do through winter, since that’s how I drive.

Tonight on the way home from work I did all these things, listening to Christina Perri’s CD. It really is so good, so depressing, but I skipped the happier songs. Three, six, and eight, I think, the one about the “penguin”, as I haven’t liked that song lately. I got home before the CD finished, so I just kept driving and driving, trying but failing to get lost, thinking about how everything reminds me of something else, and I how I hate it…but sort of enjoy it.

Painting, Oh How I've Missed You

After too long of a break, I started painting again today. For a few reasons.

One is that I simply enjoy painting and how quickly I’ve improved over the past few years while creating a business for myself. Painting is different from the other arts, music and writing for example. As painting is visual, it can offer instant satisfaction. People can just look at what I painted and enjoy it, and tell me they enjoy it, and compliments are something I never reject; they are also something I often receive due to my painting. Most people don’t care about my piano videos, as you have to like piano to like them…of course. Even less care about my writing, as far too many are too lazy to read, or they don’t like reading, or they can care less about me, and so on and so on. With painting and other visual arts, you just have to look at it. It’s easy.

That’s actually one thing I enjoyed about substitute teaching. I got to draw all day, and I can’t count how many times a student complimented my crude drawings done with nothing more than a ballpoint pen. Best was when I substituted art class and had access to all the supplies and had a slew of students ask me if I studied art in college, if I was an artist, if I could teach the class for now on. Rather funny, since I’m entirely self taught, still awful with perspective, and I find it hard to consider myself an artist in the visually artistic sense.

Like I said, before today I hadn’t painted in far too long—all summer, essentially. Other than the book I wrote and am now editing, my creative juices were ripped out of me and discarded somewhere far, far away. Yeah, I’ve been writing the blog, but it’s nothing monumental. I tried to paint this summer, I did, but I just couldn’t get into it. Everything I did lead me back to the book I’m writing. I haven’t played a videogame in five months now; a year ago I would have thought this impossible. Back in the day I rarely did anything else. Anyway, I finally made myself sit down and paint, and to my surprise I really enjoyed it. More so, it felt so easy and natural—a lot easier than it was before I stopped. It relaxed me, which is something it never did before; it made me think about nothing else other than what I was creating through acrylics. It was almost meditative.

Just a quick back-story. Senior year of college I started painting. Without any training or classes or advice, I was horrible, but I improved rather quickly and now have made $3,000+ from painting with acrylics while watching Netflix—another reason why I had to start again. Money is always needed and wanted, and I love watching Netflix. That, and I have a HUGE backorder of commissions to paint. People keep asking me to paint them things and I have to refuse for awhile due to the backorders. So I really need to sleep less, seeing that writing, working, and the gym consume about 90 hours of my week, and then on top of that I read and see my friends a few nights a week.  No time for videogames…must make time for painting again, so the least important thing must go, which is sleep.

This is probably a good thing, since the longer I sleep, the more times I wake up and fall back asleep, the more dreams I have and the better I remember them, and quite frankly, I’m sick of the nightmares. I’m sick of being stuck. More than a month and they still persist. Damn you, unresolved conflicts.

Anyway, so now I’m back to painting on a regularly basis, as I’ve missed it greatly and can already feel the desire returning in full force. But I hate it, and also hate how I discovered my love for visual arts after college.

I’ve been applying to every single videogame company as a QA tester/writer/storyboard scripter/anything to do with writing. Anything. One is every 15-20 companies actually has a writing job opened and most want you to be published with 5+ years of experience—SIGH—while every company has 10-30 art job openings. Think about that. 10-30 jobs per company in the visual arts, so that’s hundreds upon hundreds of jobs, and here I am with this fucking useless English degree. I didn’t learn how to write stories in college. I did that on my own…I learned how to talk about books, discuss poetry, debate, and at least somewhat helpful, I learned how to edit and proofread and be extremely hard on myself. I also learned how to public speak, which is something I love, so I guess that’s also helpful. Even so, if I could do it all again I would A: Not go to UConn but somewhere else far, far away B: Not go for English, but art instead, likely computer art so I could create videogames, and C: Never, ever commute for two years and attend far more social things than I did when I went to college. I was a bit of a recluse and wasted some valuable years.

But that’s why we live and learn, and that’s why I stopped wasting a moment, any moment, at any time.

She Cried

Ideas come so randomly, and, for me, so late at night. Driving home tonight, at 12:30, listening to what I always listen to at night while driving, The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine, a thought flooded into my mind, yelling so I could not ignore it. She cried. That's it, with an image of a beautiful woman, nearly divine royalty, a queen, comparable to Guinevere in Arthurian legend, standing atop a ridge overlooking a plain of battle. Her grief and sadness is infinite, her loss insurmountable yet survivable. There is a future...so distant. These are all the things that came to me, so suddenly, so depressingly yet inspiring all the while. These are some of things I always think about, which might be why I always look so lost, and, lately as many have said, sad. A few days ago at work a woman told me I have sad eyes. I didn't know how to respond. I still don't know how to feel about that. Anyway, here.

 She Cried

She cried, then, as banners whipped through the leaden sky and wind whipped across the plain of battle.

She cried, then, as lives lost were lives gained, as blood soaked the earth, and screams, those of battle and those of death, raked the air as she raked her eyes.

Her eyes offered the only softness on such a hard day—hard as steel clashed against steel and lodged deep into bone.

Her eyes, so dark and so deep, watched the day unfurl before her, as her life, all her living, converged into these moments.

Why do you, their king, their commander, my love, battle on the front when so many would willing die for you?

Why do you surrender all you have to the blade of a coward, a minion, a man who’s name will never be spoken , when you are so much more?

She cried remembering his answer and how the world mirrored against his bright eyes, how pain and belief laced his finals words.

She cried remembering his touch, the calluses on his palms, the promises he made and always kept even when she did not believe until he forced belief upon her.

I battle for you, my star, as I do everything for you, my star, as I will forever do everything for you, my star.

I keep you in my heart, your dark eyes on the blade of my sword so that I may always see you, so that, if I die, your eyes will be the last thing I see.

            She cried knowing he spoke the truth but that it meant so little, that he would die today, as the world avalanched upon him.

            She cried knowing she would forever cry for him, and because of him, and herself for letting love bloom when she knew the risks, the rewards, the pain and pleasure.

            And what if you never return, if the blade strikes your flesh and travels deeper, spills your lifeblood and leaves you lifeless?

            And what if I stand upon this ridge forever, staring down on the plain of battle as they search for your corpse amongst the fallen?

            If those things come to pass, know I have died for you—you, the last thought in my mind, vision in my eyes, my star.

            If those things come to pass, know I will wait for you at the crossroads before venturing onwards, that my life will never continue without you.

            I will wait for you, my star.

            I will wait for you, my star.

            And I will find you.

            And I will find you.