Noises

There is more noise than you would think would be bearable, or at least be capable of being slept through. In actuality, it fills the silence, the stillness of insomnia. That lack of anything that keeps you awake at night. The water filter in the fish tank bubbles on unchecked. The fan in the window makes whatever noises fans make in a manner that is louder than any other fan I've ever been forced to sleep to. But the heat and the silence keep it on. The air was still and thick this evening, almost as though it had captured the essence of the entire week in one room in one building in one moment in time. How strangely my feelings have changed. I used to think I would be bothered that I wasn't leaving too. But what has affected me most is not my lack of finishing but their departure. The thought of a person comes to mind. A person I rarely see. I realize that is what I will miss the most. The random encounters. The "hello" in passing. I will never experience them again in the same way. The air holds the nostalgia. The fan keeps it at bay, as though it were some positive thought or some encouraging word.

Existential

I find it disconcerting that I will never be another person. I think of a person who I have forgotten existed. It isn’t difficult to do, to forget someone exists. They may not forget, but I do. And when I think of this person it startles me to realize that they have existed all along. And I think that it must be drastically different to be that person than it is to be me. But I will never know, because I will never be that person. It’s not that I want to be that specific person, or even that I don’t want to be myself. But a strange feeling enters you when you realize you will never be anyone else. You will never know what that person thinks. You will never know what that person feels. You will only ever know what you think, you will only ever know what you feel. And that person will continue to exist whether you remember them or not. Any idea or concept of the world in which you imagined it centered on you is shattered by this knowledge. It may not be something you consciously think, but it is there: the idea that your consciousness is the only consciousness. The idea that without you the world would no longer exist because you would no longer be there to perceive it existing. When I spell it out it doesn’t make much sense. But it is there nonetheless, and it is there because of how limited I am. Because I will never be another person. The world only exists to me because I am here to perceive it existing.  And the people I forget, to me do not exist. Yet that has little standing in the world. In fact, that is possibly the most disconcerting detail about this realization. The fact that to many, I do not exist. Were the world dependent on one person’s consciousness, it would most likely not be mine. And I would most likely not exist. Because another person would never be me.

Evenings

I was watching the lightning in the north sky. It might have been heat lightning. It reminded me of last night when I watched the lightning tear through the sky, the same sky, both brilliant and terrifying at the same time. The fact that I was driving didn't help the matter. The thought of being struck pervaded my mind much of the trip. But this was different. It was far away, not causing explosions in my field of vision, with thunder echoing its response to the fissures of light spreading downward from the heavens. It reflected the internal workings of my being. Just as much as I was panicked last night, I am calm tonight. I am too alone to panic. Loneliness is like a drug. It is an addictive substance that is at once calming and terrifying. Strong emotions flee, unable to resist the pervading force of emptiness, of sorrow. Like the heat lightning in the distance. Perhaps it is something that should frighten. But the subtle beauty of it, the sad solemnity of its silence, drive away all thought of fear. A calmness spreads its way through your body, through your mind, because it feels safe, it feels empty.

24 Hours

There are always people connected to you that you don't actually know and never will, like the girl I only know because she hit my car in a parking lot. These are the people in some strange, unclassified category. They aren't friends, in fact they aren't truly acquaintances, but they aren't strangers. They are fewer than friends and certainly fewer than strangers. It is the strangers that predominantly fill my vision every day I sit here. I often envision myself making new friends, but I envision myself doing many things. Only last night I determined I would no longer be wasteful, just as I opened my new bottle of Crest mouthwash with fluoride to attempt to preserve my difficult to care for teeth. And the very next thing I did was waste some of it by pouring too much into the little cup and not being willing to pour it back into the bottle. I watched it go down the drain as I rinsed the cup, a minute amount of purple mixed in with the vaguely cold tap water, and I felt strangely guilty. I think it was more because of my inconsistency rather than the mouth wash, but I'm not entirely sure. I'm not entirely sure of many things. I am fairly sure though that my inconsistency is the only thing that is consistent. Just like the sign I watched this morning in the cafe. I watched the intermittent lights of the Open sign; it was facing outward, but I could see it reflected in the window. It flashed ceaselessly, but it was the most steady entity present, its pattern of change a reminder of constancy. Yet not everything constant is ideal. There are times still when I almost cry just because I have to eat my ice cream alone.

Lost in Emotion

Sometimes I think of childhood, lost, and I cry;

I think of the long days all gone by –

It seems too short to say goodbye.

Sometimes I feel like I am young once more;

I cry about small things like when I was four –

It shakes me up to my very core.

Sometimes I have feelings with which I cannot relate;

Feelings of sadness, happiness, come too late –

Feelings like memories, lost, this I hate.

Sometimes I cannot comprehend what I feel;

I wonder at times if it ever was real –

Yet the memories, lost, disallow me to heal.

Sometimes I desire to reach back in the past;

Yet it is not as though I want those feelings to last –

I merely wish it didn’t pass by so fast.

Sometimes I want to remember the feeling I felt;

It comes to the surface like an untimely welt –

My heart, reason unknown, begins to melt.

Sometimes I ponder whether all feel this way;

If we all wonder why the feelings don’t stay –

If all have the feelings that don’t go away.

Sometimes I consider myself one of a kind;

No one else has to ponder as much in their mind –

No one else has to search in order to find.

Sometimes I believe no one ever could understand;

That often even I find it difficult to stand –

That when I’m lost in emotion I just need a hand.

The Different

I remember when we used to talk. We used to talk of the things that we wrote. And the things that we wrote were different. But the things that we wrote were the same. Now we never talk. And I read the things that you write and I read the things that I write and I never see the same. I see the different, is all I see. I remember when we used to talk. And our lives were different. But our lives were the same. Now we never talk. And I read the things that you write and I read the things that I write and I never see the same. I see the different, is all I see. How very different is this life, lived out by you. How very different is this life, lived out by me.

3/14

[An Imagination Growing Cold]

An imagination growing cold,

Possessing no dream or lasting hope.

I have fallen for a deeper trope:

New words proclaiming meanings old.

Imagination believed the claim,

Embellishing where falling short,

Yet never dreaming it of the sort

Of which to say, "It came

And went; no lasting dreams,

A fading hope already spent."

A feeling borrowed, or rather, lent:

The price, my heart torn at the seams.

Destroyed by words designed to rend;

The power of syllables deeply felt:

To lock a heart or defenses melt.

Some phrases spoken are hard to mend.

I search still deeper in my heart

And find I still cannot believe

The words that pierce my heart and cleave

That beating organ part from part.

I will not say, "It came and went;

No lasting dream, a fading hope,

No meaning beyond a simple trope."

I will not say, "Already spent."

Dreams growing cold: a dying ember

Ignites my soul; it lights my mind;

It forces me to look behind.

It tells me softly to remember.

1/14