Short Notes

An Optimist

If I were an optimist, I’d like to tell you that all the pain was only there to remind you of the good, that death is the passageway to new life, and that suffering is only a step towards health.
I’ve never been an optimist.

An odd sort of Poetry · Narratives · Short Notes

Like Night and Like Day

He once asked me why I was so cynical and jaded. The question was so natural coming from him, being that he, at heart, was a positive force. My answer to him was quite simple:

You grew up in the day with the sun lighting your path.
I grew older in the night among the darkness and the faint light of the moon.
You became who you are because of the things you saw in the daylight.
I became who I am because of the things I couldn’t see in the night.

An odd sort of Poetry

Nearly Enough

I’m scared.
I’m scared of the thoughts that run through my mind.
I’m scared of the person I’ve become.
I’m scared of the things I’ll never get to do.
I’m scared of all the lives I’ll never get to live.
I’m scared of the way my own body has forsaken me.
I’m even more scared of the way my own mind has forsaken me.
The thing that scares me the most is that these things don’t scare me nearly enough.

Narratives · Short Notes

the old man across from me

The familiar brand screams at me silently as I sit here writing, but the sweet smell of cream and the bitter fumes of coffee calm my troubled mind. Across from me sits a man. I can feel his gaze lingering just over my head- my eyes need not assure my mind, but they do regardless. He is aged, the way I hope to never be. On his head he wears a grey cap, a sort of grey cap that takes my soul back to an era I never lived. His tired eyes are magnified by lenses that seem glued to his visage. Our gazes meet, and I smile. Then, in turn, the old man smiles as well. Now, after this brief exchange I will pack up my things and leave. The old man will die and so will I.

Narratives · Short Notes

Tell me about Betrayal

I sit on the cold tile floor with trembling knees tucked against my chest as I gaze apathetically at the endless supply of food in the pantry. Each resting glance makes my stomach feel weak and my irreparable spirit grow poorer. A familiar faintness overcomes me, and to subdue the blurry spots in my vision, I close my longing eyes and rest my head against my knees.The black poison seeps from the corners of my eyes, it’s heavy and threatens to take everything, yet I long to succumb to the darkness, for in the darkness there is something that resembles relief. It’d been far too long since I’d nourished my body. The only thing I’ve been able to keep down is that little blue pill, whose purpose is to numb the pain, to make me “happy.” My body has betrayed me, my mind has betrayed me, and worse of all my soul has betrayed me.

An odd sort of Poetry

All Dying Things

All beautiful things die,

And all dying things are beautiful.

I never saw it, but they always said my face was quite lovely:

They said my lips were the color of roses.

I’m no fool- roses, even the most beautiful, wither and die.

They said my skin was white as snow.

I’m no fool- snow, even the whitest, melts into a dull grey puddle.

They said my eyes were piercing as the bright blue sky.

I’m no fool- the sky, even the brightest blue, turns dark each and every night.

They said my freckles were like grains of sand in a hidden paradise.

I’m no fool- a single grain of sand, even the prettiest grain, is worthless.

They said I was beautiful.

I’m no fool- all dying things are beautiful.