Waiting For You, My Love

It’s been so long, so much has happened, and fear of the unknown prevents me from picking up this phone tonight. It’s been two years today without any information. Two years and two months since we actually spoke. What are you doing? Are you well? Are you happy? Do you think about me, curse me, or even worry? The last thing you’d be is surprised with my absence; that’s true. I know you’d be glad to hear something from me, even if that something was not very much at all. This contempt for my happier self is tearing out of me from the darkness within. And yet I refuse to change.

You always said we’d be together one day, even if that day is decades away. You’d say, “most friends are adrift; screaming into my life, then slowly fading out. But us, we fade together. The screams are the beacons that will never lose the connection.” You’re such a beautiful thinker, a dreamer and a skeptical believer. You could be correct, or was it all a delusion, set forth upon a fourth wish?

This entire commitment rests in your arms. I’ll never be strong enough, courageous, bold, honest or alive. So I hope that you find me and beg me to just listen, to be still. My paradox of ego will crumble the moment I hear your voice.

Yes, things are terrible right now. You’re the only who understands me. Shit is terrible, I know, but shit is worse than it seems.

Waiting in the forest for you, my love.








Novel Idea – A Biography in Pieces

Secretly, I’ve spent much of the last two years grinding out, bit by bit, a semi biographical book reflecting on my experiences with the Army and life after. I’d never even considered doing such as thing. Besides the occasional letter, some technical writing at work, and an on again, off again journal, I had no credibility or experience needed to write an actually readable text. The project become more daunting upon losing my early efforts, most applicable art and several notebooks containing memories and rough quotes from my time in the Army, when last February, my cabin went up in flames along with everything inside at the time. I returned from a hike to find the place little more than a pile of smoking rubble, a particularly apt metaphor for my life.

These past months I’ve slowly restarted the process, albeit from an even further deteriorated mind and spirit. I’m considering publishing the work, an unedited chapter at a time, on this page for review and commentary? Even though I find my work entirely unreadable, like the reaction one might have to hearing ones recorded voice for the first time, possibly a little sliver of vulnerability would help me in improving, or worst case, abandoning the project altogether?

I do not expect any response to this post. Writing it down, here, was my first baby step in that direction. So if I don’t chicken out before then, I hope to release the prologue online by tomorrow night. All I ask if for genuine feedback, good or bad, helpful or not. Any sharing of the work would be greatly appreciated as well.

Until the next falling sun. L