In Darkest Of Times

In the darkest of times, a man finds he is staring back unto himself, an empty shell with all his flaws spilled out in front of him. He sees what he truly is inside, hidden away from the rest of the world with a fake persona. Even those close to him, have only ever seen glimpses of this hidden world, but never the full, horrifying self.

I’ve heard that in order to understand another, you must walk the same path they have walked, faced the same ups and downs they have. If this is true, then sadly, there may be no survivors to stand next to me at the end of my road. I’ve had my good times, sure, but I’ve also had my fill of bad times, and more than enough times filled with pure, utter grief. Give any normal, sane person a single day of my life where all three times have happened in the course of less than six hours, and see if they’re still standing at the end of the rubble. I doubt you would.

Thing is, I met someone that grew on me, and came to mean many things to me. I let her into my world believing she would be able to understand it. There was a sense of relief, a calmness, and joy that came from this. There was someone who found me, was interested in me in all ways possible, and on some level, even understood me. There are few and far between feelings that surpass knowing, having found this person. But like all things that seem to good to be true, a fiery blaze is how it must end. You find the person that seems to understand you, who gets your odd quirks, and finds them cute. Able to comfort you when feeling off, or share your heavy loads. But then, then you find that its all been a false ruse, and nothing of it rooted at all. This is when you realize, some part of you that has been buried, forgotten, is still existing, and can still wreak havoc within your mind.

I was open, completely open, with no shield up to protect myself. Why would I need it? What use would it be but to hinder? I was safe on this side, with someone who had my back. Or at least I thought I was. It was warm at first. And very isolated. But then it spread, and became painful. It was hard to breathe, each breath spreading it further. I was dying from the inside out. I could hear the screams of pain ripple through halls of deep caverns.

In the brightest of times, anyone can bring you back to your knees, but in the darkest of times, its the memories and residual feelings that come to haunt you each night. It’s been eight months since my fiery death, and I can still hear the cries of pain echoing softly from my caverns as the fogs of doubt slowly lift from their veils.

They say once you’ve walked that mile in another’s shoe, only then can you understand them. But what do you do if you’re walking in your own shoes, and are still lost, void of answers?

You keep walking in search…

Two Years After The Wails

The banshee’s wail, thought to be a warning for those who hear it’s cries and screams, may neither be a warning or meant for them at all.

The Earth shattering realization mere moments away from the comforts of deep slumber while the world whizzes on by at its usual pace of millions of nonsensical cares a second, for a minute second, halted. The wail of a banshee was not that to be a warning for others this time, but of uncontrollable grief taking hold of the body as it dropped to the floor. It’s only ability given to offer, is that of unrelentless heartache while the air escapes each crevasse of the lung. The lasting effects of those who’ve heard it, are a scorched memory of that night forever left a reminder that this is when it all changed.

Two years have now gone. Two years of life nonexisting. Two years of moments, hugs, kisses, laughter not stolen nor captured. Two years of heartaches unending and beyond mendable where you once were. Two years of everything changing.

That night we started running. Once that shockwave subdued long enough, once feet were able to be planted ever so, we started. We’ve yet to look back. It took near an hour, but we got there. Into the car, buckled, blanketed to calm the cold, and with a destination desperately needing to find us there. The wailing still fresh in my soul, it was then up to me, at those earliest of hours, to make sure the distance was gone. The only feelings that were there to guide were those that knew exactly what the physical road was presenting ahead, the same miles these bones had traveled for years before and knew so well. Everything else was empty and useless with no way of knowing how anything at that time. It was just important that we go, and that I knew how to get there.

Since that night, hours have faded into days fading into months with memories of happier things holding back all the pain. Things yet to come will be sorted in their ways when they need to be, while each day, two little worlds continue to grow and thrive. They are protected from everything and will always be so for as long as they need or wish to be. They know the realities of how harsh life can and will be, but they also know that your sword and shield once protecting them, has been picked up and continues through this day.

Two years gone. Two years of amazing growth. Two years of running, many more to go.

Two years never forgotten with dozens more remembering.

A Light Shines Through

It’s been nearly a year since the knock on deaths door was heard; a year of everything changing, evolving. No longer the same man that once inhabited this body; alone with one’s thoughts can have a chilling effect on how they perceive themselves. There was death’s hand that day; the only one stretched out in those early hours of emptiness. It was not taken, but left stretched during that long drive. It would have been easy to grab hold of it, yanking him in nice and close. But no good would have come from this act. He was useless as ever in those hours, and I wasn’t ready to deal with him just yet. He could squander a few more hours away, waiting.

Those hours quickly turned to days, then weeks, and now almost a year has passed. The darkest days have long gone, with new opportunities coming in every day. A steady job has been held since the aftermath, with freedoms that are greatly needed. More adventures have been taken with kids eager to conquer the worlds around them, and I’ve been there each step of the way. Watching things unfold, helping plans progress, all while the past remains where it is; a lesson to be forgotten within the ingrained history of myself.

Rather sad than funny, how you were once willing to let everything slide in order to be with the person that nearly killed you… But those days are done, forgotten about. Now, a new light breaks through the grey dull that has settled within. Slowly, with purpose, it has cleared the way for new, better opportunities experienced. Some days death is a welcomed friend; this day was a lesson taught by death, and turned around.

Creativity’s Last Dream

This pen feel foreign to fingers
Movements forced without ease
Memories of it all have faded away
Nothing remains within to be written
His soul no longer screams at night
Dreams not a lasting impact fades with day

Urge to write comes from somewhere new
Won’t come easy despite temptations
Music blends words to great beats
Still feels like everything has gone

That lost groove wants to be found
Memories faded left nothing but pain
Darkness fills voids of words once used
Slowly erasing what had been there once

Stare at this empty page
Filled with envy longing for rage
That dark just keeps coming in
But how to find the way back to light

Sits there searching for it all
Words don’t want to fall from pen
Fingers refuse to bend
Has this act come to the end?

The House

The house is wrong tonight…..
The house is dark tonight….
The house is empty tonight….
We that remain hide….
Take refuge from the night….
Mighty cat joins us alone….
The house is wrong tonight….
The house is quiet tonight….
The house has too many shadows….
While there are no lights….

The house is wrong tonight….
The house is empty tonight….
The house has lost it’s soul….
The house is dying tonight….
And it is awakening from the depths….
Stealing every last soul on its way….

The house is wrong tonight….
Filled with dreadful silence….
For all the world to hear….
And none shall ever notice….
The house that screams….
Empty in the night….

A Story Untold, Pt. 1

Once upon a time has been used, perhaps, in this setting, just once, too many times. No, this will not be a happily ever-after fantasy. I’ll save for those poor souls who need it more that journey. Quite instead, I think we’ll begin ours a bit, differently this time ’round. You see, I’ve never been one to be able to sit and write quite so easily; finishing a story in its entirety, but rather, offer extreme glimpses over the whole of a lifetime. Mayhaps this time shall be different, I hope.

Oh, I don’t recall so easily how, or even why I ended up sitting down at that moment, but it was crucial that I did. More so, that I begin writing down my thoughts as they quickly, almost quietly slipped past my conscious. These words needed to be writ before it was too late to capture them. See here now, that once the thought has occurred in such a manner, nay shall it be allowed to do so the same again. And shouldn’t that be the point of it all? To have the stroke of genius strike but only once to a man? No, I didn’t think so either, least before sitting down that night.

Sadness is a human affliction, or so we’ve been lead to believe. Rather differently I believe, it is an affliction of life. One that spans all creatures, regardless if they have higher functions or not. Though there are different levels of sadness, to be felt by each, at different times, and with different intensities, there are some to whom, rather unfortunately, must deal with great shades of pain and sadness, all within a single lifetime of living. Then there are those poor souls, who must deal with it all in extremely short spans of time. Some turn to dull the pains brought, others are driven made by it. While some, much like myself, abuse it in order to bring new life from it. We don’t control it, but we also don’t let it control ourselves. We simply respect it, learn from it, and every now and then, ride the waves as they come crashing.

See here, this writer’s heart, mind, and soul have all been through levels of hell unfathomable to others. But yet here it wrote this, still kicking, fighting, dying. It’s oft been writ before, and to be so again, of the pain and suffering that we’ve journeyed through together. It’s been broken, abused, and used more times than care to recall. It’s also known immense joys within incredible sorrows. Yet all three continue to press forwards. There are times, oh there are many times, when it all comes swelling once more within. A few stray tears will fall, and the room heavy, will grow. But the journey still continues to carry forth from depths once unknown.