Damaged

It doesn't look broken. Sometimes it doesn't even feel broken. But I know better than that. It's broken. 

I've managed to hide my limp for some time now. But it's taking its toll. My muscles ache and my leg is getting worse. At night, when I finally reach the safety and solitude of my bedroom, the pain is overwhelming and the blood flows. The pain has defeated my fatigue for three nights in a row. I can't do this much longer.

I know what I need to do but I can't afford for you to see me like this. A cast would reveal my secret. I could fake it during the day and nurse my wounds in the dark.

I don't want medical assistance, I just need a crutch. I can lean on the crutch until the pain subsides and is manageable again. Maybe I'll abandon the crutch when the pain is gone. And if someone questions my health, I can pass it off as a sprain or the like; a sprain or a twisted ankle is always better than being broken.

Too bad nobody likes being a crutch.

Discretion

Close the books, blot out the names. Some feelings are better left unfelt, some skeletons better left in the closet, some things better left unsaid.

The goal is to put grey matter onto the page, not blood and guts all over the walls.

Know your demons, but do not reveal them.

The Ocean Between Us

I want to show you something, I want to take you somewhere. But be warned, oxygen and reality don't exist where we're going.

Gear covers the floor: masks, fins, snorkels, wetsuits, weight belts. Better suit up. We're going wreck diving. 

Sunken ships and buried treasure, exploring the beauty of a once beautiful piece of machinery that perished beneath the waves and made it's final resting place at the bottom of the sea.

Something like that.

From the boat the waves look calm enough, rippling and rolling gently with the wind. Sunlight dances and shimmers on the surface, blinding the eyes and concealing what lies below. The boat is comfortable enough, familiar at least. Landlubber. Time to dive in, headfirst. Can't explore the ocean from the safety of the boat. I'll show you the way. The rules are different down there. Take my hand and hold your breath.

Beneath the waves, the world above is no more. No blue skies, no clouds. The space beneath the waves is cruel, cold, dense, wet. Immersion. Yet there is life. Mountains of coral reefs and hills of underwater vegetation, amazing each in their own way, teeming with life and color. Towering stalks of kelp, speckled sunlight filtering through it's foliage, swaying gracefully in unseen currents, thriving, growing. Unknown creatures, beautiful and dangerous; swimming by, minding their own business, asking you to do the same. Nature is best left untouched. 

The deeper you go, the more things change, the weirder the creatures get, the more the pressure hurts. Less color down here too, away from the sunlight. The pretty blues and greens and yellows slowly descend into grey. The going gets slow, movement is sluggish.

But you're doing well. Most people don't get this deep without their lungs screaming for air and their eyes burning for clarity. Your average Joe doesn't have the intestinal fortitude to push this far, to see what he's never seen before, to step out of his comfort zone. Instead, he panics and paws at the water, scrambling to return to the surface where the air is clear and everything makes sense. But wreckage tends to sink to the bottom.

Further into the depths we go, where birds don't sing and suns don't shine. Light can't penetrate this darkness. Even the glowing, weird-looking fish don't venture this far.

The seabed looms. Empty.

You look confused. Where is it? No sunken ship or doomed vessel? No buried treasure? You came all the way down here to show me an underwater wasteland? There is nothing as far as the eye can see. No life, no movement. Dead.

Where's the wreck?

You're looking at him.

Fate or Fantasy

Just give me the truth.
Is this meant to be?
Or am I simply holding on to an elusive fantasy?

Bootless

Scribble. Crumble. Toss.

Scribble, crumble, toss.

It's become a sick game, played out of despair and sometimes boredom.

Rhythmic, catchy, deadly.

Scribble, crumble, toss.

Try, fail, discard.

Rinse and repeat.

Crumble. Toss. Missed.

Stop. Reluctantly get up, put the rouge projectile in it's place. Try again.

Ready, aim, toss. Made it.

This waste of time, this cycle of maddening nothingness. Crumble, toss.

No longer writing, just tossing. Missing. No good. All of it.

Clock laughs. Stomach growls. Eyes itch. Spirits fall. Darkness deepens.

My eyes fly open.

The road appears before me, slivers of light through oppressive cloud cover. The gate is open.

Scribble. Faster, faster, write, dance, run before it vanishes! GO!

I am somewhere far from here, moving very swiftly, spanning worlds and realms undiscovered.

Desperately trying to hold on.

Fingers slip. Hand cramps. Pencil breaks.

Like a dog abruptly reaching the end of its leash.

Gone.

Crumble. Sigh. Toss.

The wastebasket overflows. My mind is vacant.

Maybe I'm trying too hard.

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough.

Fall asleep regretting everything I never wrote.

Traveler's Guide To Escaping Mental Holes

Step one. 

Stop digging.

Fistful of Sand

Leaves descending from the trees, spinning and twirling like dancers lost in song, landing gracefully in the pond. Like little sailboats caressing the surface, no cargo, no passengers, and no destination; led only by the whims of the wind and sheer luck.

I spent every day at the pond that autumn, watching the leaves fall. I liked my little leaf-boats. I chose them, collected them, raced them across the water, guiding them with my own breath. Soon I had so many boats that the pond was getting crowded. The leaves covered the pond in fiery shades of descending autumn. Maybe I should put my boats out to sea. Even more room and more wind to be free. I set out for the docks with my fleet of leaves to take the world by storm.

At the docks, I saw other boats. Big boats, powerful and efficient. Adorned with names that hung on everyone's lips, masts as thick as trees, harnessing the power of many winds to sail vast oceans, carrying much cargo and many people.

I stood there in awe, still clutching my armload of leaves. These simple leaves would surely be crushed and drown under the bows of such overpowering vessels. My boats used to make me happy; these leaves used to be all I wanted and all I could think about, consuming my mind and my time. Now my once pleasant memories of the pond seemed shallow and stagnant, a complete waste of time. The clanging of ships' horns rang in my ears, the deep murmurs of the horn reverberated in my chest, shaking the foundations of my soul and raising goosebumps on my skin.

My leaves continued to tumble to the ground as they always have, this time in tiny bits and pieces of greens and reds and yellows, slipping through my clenched fists like so much sand.

Last Hope

I was going to sing you a song but I couldn't find the music.

I was going to draw you a picture but I couldn't find a pencil.

I was going to dance you a dance but I couldn't find my feet.

I was going to write you a story but I couldn't find a happy ending.

I was going to make you smile but I couldn't find my heart.

I was going to tell you I loved you but I couldn't find the words to say.

I was going to be your hero but I couldn't save you in time.

I was going to be there for you but I couldn't keep my promise.

I was going to tell you I'm sorry but I couldn't find the courage.

I was going to walk away but you wouldn't let me go.

Indivisible

Killing Time

Swift, silent, and unseen, everywhere and nowhere. Around me and beside me. Propelling me forward and holding me back. Killing me slowly; a savior for bottled sand.

I reached out into the nothingness and buried the blade deep into its chest. The flurry of movement died on the floor.

Sands ceased to fall. My heartbeat slowed ever so slightly. I sat down in disgust. I knew what happened next.

It stirred. But this time I didn't have the heart to stab it again.

Spellbound

Sometimes I wish I could project letters from my fingertips, 

Each word forming sentences, paragraphs, stanzas on the page,

Lining up and falling into place, each on its own accord.

Like a wizard from a fairy tale,

I would cast deep spells of enchantment and sorcery,

Captivating whoever dared to look upon the bewitched writings.

But then I realize this power does indeed exist,

And then I wonder why I don't use it more often.

Fears

Fear.
No one will read it.

Bigger fear.
No one will understand it.

Biggest fear.

Not that you do not have the patience to read it, but that I do not possess the heart to write it.

2013 - I Winged It

I know 2013 is gone but I thought it would be beneficial for me to sit down and briefly assess the year that I had.

As a college student, my year is divided into two phases: school and not-school. Quite a lot of the first and little slivers of the second. Two school semesters sandwiched around a long summer break. 

January 2013. Spring semester on the horizon. The parents tell me that this could very well be my last semester at the school because of monetary issues. I was advised to take eighteen units instead of the usual fifteen so I could finish with 60 credits and possibly transfer out to another school with two full years under my belt. Something like that. Three more units, one extra class. That can't be that much harder right? Wrong.

For some reason, I was not at all prepared for that semester. I went in knowing it would be difficult, knowing it would be a lot and knowing I would have to step it up to do well. For some reason, I just wasn't there. My grades weren't awful but they could've been better. On top of all the stresses of classes and work and grades, I got real sick in April and missed a week of class. Everything turned out okay in the end; I still managed to have a good time and pass all my classes, but it definitely could have been a better semester on my part.

In the middle of the summer I went on a 'missions trip' with my school to inner city Los Angeles where we lived and worked with a church in the projects for four weeks. Life-changing to say the least. One of the best things I've ever done. But that's another story for another day. In the weeks before the trip however, I was not prepared. I was frustrated over things at home and at the dojo, I was rather bored with no job and nothing to do. My head was not in the right place. I was caught up in myself, concerned about me and what I want to do and where I want to go, yet I was going on this trip to be selfless and serve and help others. I had a huge reality check the night before I left home; it was one of those "what in the world are you doing, get yourself together" kind of night. But I went on the trip. It worked out. I made it through with a good attitude and had the time of my life. Who knew.

Six weeks later I was back to school. I went two weeks early for work purposes so I had a lot of time to steel myself for another full semester. I was determined not to make Fall '13 a repeat of Spring '13. Wrong again.

I don't know how else to put it. I was not mentally there until three weeks into the semester. I really scrambled to get the first round of papers in, staying up late and waking up early to write six or seven papers of all sizes in four days. Reality check again. "Your parents are giving how much for you to be at this school? And you reward them by procrastinating and spacing out. Well done." Played catch-up the rest of the way, it sucked but I survived. What I deemed to be my worst semester thus far ended up being my best semester academically. Don't ask me how.

I don't know if you've noticed a theme here. I did Boy Scouts when I was wee lad. Apparently all the "Be Prepared" pledges I took didn't pan out because I was prepared for nothing all year long. I know I can't be completely prepared for anything and the year did have its surprises but I wasn't even prepared for the things that I knew were going to go down. I felt like the entire year was one big "I'm about to jump out of this plane but I guess I'll check the parachute on the way down" kind of deal. What the heck.

If there's anything to learn from last year's mistakes it would be... get your feet underneath you and get your head in the game? I feel like I got away with a lot and I know that I can't afford to do that again. Stuff is getting real and I need to hit the ground running this year.

Now's the time to make resolutions and start over yes? New year, new you right? Here's an "easy" one: look back on what you did and take the necessary step to not making those mistakes again. Yes you will find new mistakes to make this year but at least you won't be stumbling over the blunders of the past.

Don't just "wing it". That's what I did. Don't do what I did.

Welcome To Me

Welcome to 2014, page-brainers. First post of the year.

After contemplating the termination of this blog, I've decided to keep it for the time being. It's good therapy for my own insanity.

This here is dangerous business. This is risky. I have to count the cost every time I sit down at these keys. I have to steel myself and hold my breath. It's hard to open up, to talk about yourself, to admit your faults, share your fears, and reveal your dreams. It's hard, for me anyway. Like the ribs protecting vital organs, it's only natural to treasure and hide that which is precious. But I'm not here to hug precious organs, warm, closed and comfortable. I'm here prying open the rigid gates around my heart, pulling it out of my chest and holding it up, fleshy, bloody and bleeding for you to see.

The whole purpose of this here establishment is to expose myself on these pages. It will be my heart, my blood, and my brains splattered across these pages. The good, the bad and the ugly. It's not easy. I tell myself that I'm writing for myself but that's not entirely true. 

Sometimes it's painful to let someone traverse the dark, tender parts of my being. With my chest open and my heart exposed, I run the risk of being pierced where it hurts the most. There are flesh-eating monsters out there who would love nothing more than to abuse the access I've offered to destroy me from the inside out. But sometimes it take an external force, someone with a steady hand to reach inside between the protective barriers of my soul to mend and extract the one thing that is killing me. It's a risk I have to take. One I'm willing to take.

Nothing here has changed. And nothing is going to change. For those of you who are new, welcome to the show. For those of you who have stuck it out with me, this is just a quick refresher on what to expect whenever the pink stuff starts hitting the white pages.

You are reading this. In order for you to read this, I have to open up. I have to let you in. Sometimes it's messy and dirty, sometimes it's crazy and unclear, sometimes it's unorthodox and unorganized. But this is where I live and this is how I do. 

Welcome to my humble abode. Welcome to me.