And it was there I saw her first
like a vision of the sea
Lost between my words
as if a drug took over me
A shy and trembling heart
so destroyed by all the waves
It was there we had our start
just to sink in the same place
My demands and my requests
weren’t enough to float this ship
And no matter where I shall rest
she will forever hold her grip
So I’ll sit by so idly
and remember us as we were
As I watch the ocean eat
the adored remains of her

Wine.
Pen.
Paper.

Damage will be done tonight.

Someone just asked me out. What the fuck is happening?

I don’t know why I do this to myself.

Every part of me apologizes for holding onto you like I do.

Shit’s getting real.

I’m overwhelmed.
I can’t help but realize everyone goes through the same shit that I’m dealing with.
But the way I deal
is so much different.
The past week has been nothing but packing and trying to tie up loose ends.
And I can’t even do that correctly.
I’m smoking too much.
Much more than usual.
And my writers block is back once again.
This is the hardest for me
because it’s the only way I can get it all out.
My penmanship is even being affected.
I can’t even read anything I write.
It just looks like scribbles to me.

I have three days left in this town.
Three days.
And I haven’t even heard one word from her.
That really fucks me up.
I’m running out of time.
I keep telling myself that I can do this.
Alone.
But I’m already lonely.
And that is too much for me already.
I feel sick.
I haven’t been eating well.
Maybe one meal a day.
The appetite just isn’t there.

It’s weird that only three months ago
I felt like I was on top of the world.
I had a future planned.
I had the girl of my dreams.
It all seemed to finally be falling into place.
But now she’s gone
and I feel lost.
No confidence left.
No motivation.
Everything feels forced.
But isn’t that the only way to move on?
Force.
Take the hits.
Every fucking hit.
And with every punch to the stomach
you’re supposed to get stronger.
I’m trying.
I’ve never been strong.
So much has happened to me to bring me further down in the past couple years,
but where is the strength?
I’m still here.
Alive.
I guess that counts for something.

One thing is for certain,
I’m done being the nice guy.
I’m done being trampled on.
Like CJ told me just the other day,
“I think it’s time for your asshole phase.”
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I need to start saying no.
To favors.
To waiting.
To love.
Here’s my big FUCK YOU to all three.

I’m glad I’m starting new somewhere.
I’ll be in a place where they cannot see who I am.
Because they won’t like me once I’m gone.

The reality is setting in.
I’ll be out of this city in a weeks time.
This is what I’ve always wanted.
And I’m terrified.

I feel the desire to try and get you back
growing ever so slowly
less and less

Oh, hey, Nostalgia.

You’re right on time.

“Are you okay?”
She asks the only combination of words that have become so hard to answer.
“Start from the beginning.”

Fine.

I awake
every morning
with not one,
but two women on my mind.
Two goddamn women on my mind
that broke me.
One of which is the love of my life.
The other,
carried a soul that matched mine.
And not once do they leave my thoughts throughout the day.
No matter what I’m doing.
And if that weren’t enough,
I smoke too fucking much.
I never used to smoke like this.
I don’t smoke weed anymore
which is good.
But now I smoke tobacco
which is worse.
The coffee
the cigarettes
the records
are the only things that calm my nerves.
I write
about all the fucking strain I feel on my shoulders.
But that doesn’t help anymore.
Because when I start to write
I realize it’s my passion.
My obsession.
And if this world has taught me anything,
it’s to make these passions and obsessions into something to benefit you.
My writing.
My music.
My photography.
They are the only things that make any sense to me.
But not one of them has gotten me to where I want to be.
I try.
Goddamn it, do I try.
And what makes that effort so much more disheartening,
is the fact that I take pride in my work.
I think my writing is decent enough to be published,
but it’s just the same old recycled shit about heartbreak and lust that everyone has done before.
My music holds my most passionate couplets and desires,
but no one will book me.
I’ve played for nearly twelve years and I’ve never had my own live show.
My photography grasps at my deepest sense of nostalgic happiness,
but I simply don’t know what to do with it.
I can’t even get over my social awkwardness and come up with good poses for my models,
to the point of where I just shoot candid shit and hope it turns out ok.
But no one wants that.
They all want to be formed into this premeditated form of what they truly think is beauty.
That’s hard for me.

All day long
I am fully aware of my mindset.
I know my issues.
I know my weaknesses.
But that doesn’t matter.
When I feel like I’m giving it my all to make myself better
and cure this sickness,
in the end it’s still the same outcome.
I’m not suicidal.
I don’t ever think of just giving up.
When I spill my issues like this, all I seem to get in return is pity and sorrow from whoever listens.
And that’s the last thing I want.
I don’t have a shitty life.
I don’t.
I have an amazing family.
I have a small group of close friends,
some whom I have known for over ten years.
I have a roof over my head.
I still find beauty in all that surrounds me.
But why the fuck isn’t that enough?
How can someone see so clearly,
all the beauty,
all the bullshit,
be able to tell them both apart,
but still feel so lost?

Just yesterday
I realized that all of this is so much worse during the day.
And as the sun sets I get this
slow
steady wave
of comfort flowing over me.
I used to think it was the night itself that I enjoyed.
I considered myself a night owl.
But then I realized,
it’s not because the sun is down.
It’s not because I can see each and every star.
It’s not because of the warm summer breeze that hits my skin.
It’s because I know,
that in a few hours time,
I’ll be in my bed
asleep,
if I can sleep.
And that is when
I can get another eight hours
of peace.

So, I ask you, Doc.
Am I okay?

My hands caught my gaze today.
They were unfamiliar to me.
Rough.
Dry.
Tired.
Maybe it’s from all the writing I’ve been doing lately.
Maybe it’s from all the new progressions my guitar and I have shared.
Whatever the case,
they weren’t mine.
“Your hands are so soft.”
They would say.
Back before the heartbreaks.

It was a few days before Christmas.
2006.
The house was a small one
cracked white paint
and a red door.
It was there that I first set my eyes on her.
Family holidays were never my thing.
Only filled with half-hearted hello’s.
Ever since I started driving
I would leave as soon as my belly was full.
“Where are you running off to?”
They would ask.
“Meeting up with a friend.”
They were always lies.
My bedroom became my safe place.
But that night was different.
She appeared as a new face,
a breath of fresh air.
Who are you and how can you be so beautiful?
I kept my thoughts to myself that night.
My sister even seemed to know who she was but I never made an effort to ask.
I went out back
lit a half-smoked cigarette
and smoked it dry behind the bushes.
I was only seventeen.
I vaguely remember anything from that night.
But I remember her.
I remember that laugh.
I remember the way her eyes would scrunch up like that of an upside down “U”.
That unnatural dark hair,
that to this day, I sometimes miss.
It looked so good on her.

At one point
I sat back down in the chair that seemed to become my home during those lengthy hours.
She sat down on the couch
a mere eight feet from me.
And she picked up the beaten guitar
that rested at the arm.
And she played.
Adam’s Song.
Blink.
Blink-182.
Then the goosebumps arrived.
A stupid grin quickly taking over my face.
It was in that moment
that I fell for her.
A girl who’s name I didn’t know.
A girl I knew nothing about.
But my soul wanted to know
everything.
What was her favorite breakfast?
How did she take her coffee?
What made her angry?
What made her happy?
At night when she lies in bed
who does she think of?
I just wanted to spend hours with her,
picking her brain until there was nothing left.

And so the song subsided.
She got up to rendezvous with my cousins and her friends.
Then she was gone.
I sat there for ten more minutes
lingering on the thought of her.
I got up,
slipped on my jacket,
and let out another lie to my family.
I opened that red door
prepared to be greeted by the cold.
Instead,
it was her smile.
It was a muted laugh.
It was that first time our eyes met simultaneously.
I held the door open for her as she rushed inside.
“Thank you,” she muttered with a chill.
It was there
at that red door
where it all began.

She arrived at 9:45
PM.
I was a mess that entire day.
As I stood there waiting for her in the lobby
I had trouble catching up with my breathing.
Through the monitor on the wall
I watched her make her way down that hallway.
In a cute blue dress
with polka dots.
Legs bare and trembling
as they took those first, long-awaited steps toward me.
I swear she could hear my heart pounding,
only getting louder as the space between us grew smaller.
Then, I had her.
I felt as if this were some indie film
about two lovers who had never met
and were finally getting to know the true sense of touch.
My left hand grabbed the handle of her bag.
My right, grabbed her hand.
My index finger rested on the inside of her first two.
But that wasn’t what she desired.
She was different.
Instead, we switched.
She locked her finger between mine
and the others followed suit.
It sounds stupid,
but in that moment she showed me something new.
Just like every other thing she threw my way.

The drive home.
Oh, that drive home.
There was rain, lots of it.
But all I wanted to do was stare at her and soak up every wish that was now coming true.
I felt the warmth of her eyes on me.
And I fucking loved it.
She kept saying,
“I can’t believe I’m here.
This doesn’t feel real.”
And I felt the same.
This night was what our dreams were made of.
We had both played these scenes
over and over in our own minds.
Unsure if we would play the parts well.
But we did.
That drive home.
Oh, that drive home.

She placed her bags in the corner of my room.
She stared at me.
And I stared at her,
trying to make up for every moment that I was forced to watch the damp road.
I told her that I liked her dress.
All while, in my head,
I wanted to slip it off of her.
But my nerves were shot,
unable to even mutter a few words that made sense.
“I brought you something,” she said.
She continued to pull out a bottle of her favorite wine.
Pazzo.
And with it,
pieces of art that she had crafted
and that I was so fond of.
I sat down onto my bed
and she sat at my feet as we looked through each one.
With every new piece,
I fell in love with her more and more.
I took the pile and set it at my side, knowing that in this moment there was only one thing left to do.
She looked up at me
with those crystalline, hazel eyes.
My heart dropped inside of my chest.
And she made the first move.