In this collective insanity, I see beauty being burned and wasted, all the time. I see line after line of needlessly broken ties. Homeless, hopeless hearts that think breaking one more connection, running from one more place will make the pain go away.

We don’t see — we’re only acting like we were taught. Brought up.

We’re only isolating ourselves because we never learned how to hold on. We only thought of constant departures became we have no home at all. And no definition for what it might be like to have one, after all.

We’re driving to our death at a speed that is unbearable. But all the windows are up, and we’re so sealed in that we don’t think we feel the effects of it. So accustomed to our constructed misery; we can’t even face reality.

So like panicked animals in cages, we tear ourselves and each other apart. We’re bathed in our own blood, trying so desperately to be the strongest one. To survive the night. To somehow win out in an already lost fight.

And whoever stands at the end will still have bars across their skin.
The masters never intended to unlock the door.
Why did we think this fighting would work?

If we could ban together, we could see through the game. We could find ways. We could survive another day. We could be stronger, smarter, more alive. But it’d mean setting aside everything. And we’re so well bred to be so strongly self-identified that we can’t imagine that compromise.

So, in the end, I suppose we’ll lose. And the masters will lose, too, when the world caves in.
Waiting it out will just mean more extinction.

Oh well, right?

Tebanasu, doce.

The first place we lived together was warm, bathed always in sunlight and the sounds of being under water. All the windows opened to let in the fresh winter, snow-tinged air. Late nights, I laid on a couch you found by sheer chance. We had problems and we were shortsighted — but we had love. And that, back then, was enough.

The undercurrent of alterations was slow as it eroded the ground under our feet that we thought we’d always stand firm on. Not rocks, not sand. A soft soil that filled the air with sweet aromas while it trickled away in the downpours. We tried to hop the rivulets and find new purchase. We grabbed branches that felt sturdy. But the forest slowly morphed around us almost without our noticing.

The first time we slipped on a tangle of vines was bad, but by no means the worst. It’d get harder before the end. We’d cling faster to shifting things. We’d grab dead branches that’d break away like dust. We’d step into potholes that’d swallow our whole ankle up. We’d get higher along the cliff-side only to tumble head-first onto sharp slick rocks. 

Seven years we lasted trying to make the summit. That was long enough. We’ve packed our gear, now, and given up.

Sometimes, turning back is the only way to move ahead.

Of course, the trek through all that wilderness with all the signposts of where we failed and where we passed will not be easy. We will constantly feel the strain of having decided to give up the initial goals. We will always think — but what if we had kept on? We will always know that the unknown was above our heads, and we came down instead.

But sometimes, the turning is better than the summit you would have crossed. And sometimes having gone up at all is enough. The joy of achieved some arbitrary goal would not have outweighed the cost. The suffering we’d have incurred.

That is what we’ve chosen. And that’s alright.

We don’t have to scale every obstacle because we thought we could. Or should. Or wanted to. And sometimes, the return home is so much warmer once you start it.

The ghosts I pass along the way are spirits of my past. They are the whispers of old friends. Tracks through the trails where I had been.

I accept this trek, retracing my old steps. I’ll only learn to be better from it. 

Metaphorical imagery of things I needed to know before now

Satellites drifting overhead. Pieces of things falling and burning in the atmosphere. I see it bright blue, impossible to avoid.

Signs of the fall coming?

Recall this fact: the night sky is not the exception but reality. Black void expanding vacuum between burning, gaseous, condensing energy. Vibrations echoing for centuries. Distance measured in the length we must go back in time to find it. Not far away, but ago.

Reflective blue-white is only our privilege of being earth-live. A creature of a system our collective insanity is tearing down. Perhaps, we tear at reality because the systems seem impossible to ruin. So we wager everything and close our eyes and take a shot into the light.

Did we hit anything?

You hit me in the stomach with my mistakes.
I didn’t load blanks.
I didn’t even think you’d take aim.

I’m the one to blame.

Should have come prepared, knowing the disjointedness we all come from. Should have accounted for that violence, should it rise, come bubbling to the surface. Should have definitely had a secret plan this time around.

But I get gutted all the time for my acceptance. Expectation of genuineness. Hope for honesty. I forget people all lie and hide so easily, eagerly, happily.

Like if we get away with it, it’s fun, funny, we’re feeling good.
Fool I am to think someone else also wants more. Fool I am to think anyone else would sit here under a tree and contemplate reality openly. Fool I am for thinking anyone agrees.

“I never thought I would be bleeding emotions I needed to feel.”

Same here.

Easy solution? Stop straying from what you know you need. Lie down. Breathe. Take a dose of Lithium. You’ll feel better soon.

And if you don’t, the storm is coming anyway.
Brace yourself.


Words like ash and smoke rise from candles lighting a dark room. The room: my mind — the candle light: these (ephemeral) thoughts I cannot avoid.

If I had moments to spare and images to compare, I’d be lost in a sea of sorrow here. But I escape the snares of sadness through narrow passages. Like a hare through thorny branches. I lost some tufts of fur and scraped some skin off the surface — but getting away is better than death.

I have no desire yet to die.
I have a fire still, smoldering in a cracked shell caught up from the sea. It may be burning through the sage, but for now the scent in the air is nice. I think the moon wants to breathe it. I think the stars — proof of the past long gone — agree.

I’d like to believe, anyway.

Magic is only the explanations I don’t yet have.
Your love was magic, and I longed to have it. Even in the wake of desolation after it. Even as I sit alone by candle smoke and cinder light, I am spinning, reeling confused and upside down from it.

It was a firestorm that sorched me. A hurricane that blew through me. A quake that shook my pieces all apart. It was a pattern I could not predict. A formation I could not explain. A storm that, despite the warnings, I could not weather.

Every second that passes, I want what I had back with a stronger passion. And I know, the longer the delay between the two, the less likely I am to get it.

This is the crash against the shore. The end of a long ripple that became a troubled wave. I rode it all the way. The cap has crested white. And all I can do is wait it out.

I learned this all when I was forming, learning, first touching water:
Tumble with the power of the ocean because if you fight it, you’ll drown.

My roots go down into the wet sand, find purchase in salty water, and grow flowers of tropical colors.

I will return to the islands to shed this old skin. To grow a tougher, lighter weight one to fly away in. Thousands of feathers, hollow bones. Ears that hear in all directions. Eyes that see through darkness by triangles of motion, not light.

And I’ll do it on old beaches peppered with a glistening brilliant purple-blue. Because my life began there and my origin story never moved.

Home is where my story is.
I have nothing else.

Sun down.

What would the story look like if I scrapped everything that reminded me of you?

Scrap Stray.
Scrap Akai.
Scrap the story arch that centered around the choices you and I made.
Erase the whole thing.

Charcoal would, naturally, be exactly the same.
Haha. It’s almost funny.

But what would it do to Carbon? And what would it do to Ciclakumei? And what would it bury in the wasteland sand? What would it mean to track back over time and take out all the pins your mind had hammered in?

Can I reclaim it all?
Make Kopia mine?
Take Vioreta and take Stray for what each one of them is?
Can I write without the one I was writing for?

Vonnegut once said something I wasn’t sure that I agreed with: that you always write for someone. Whoever it is, write for them well.
Did I know I wrote for you? Did I somehow think it was myself?

Oh what a complete fool I’ve been.
I’ve lost my only important readership.
This really is the end, then.

What more do I have to say?
If no-one reads the words, what’s the point?

Can I shift who loves these tales? Can I make them for someone else? Can I write the same lines and curves without your fingertips tracing across the surface? Can I make imprints without your suggestion of where to place the lines? Can I make paper cranes without a pattern to attend?

Do I want to?
Or is this it?

Have I scribbled my last words after having found such purchase?
Have I writ my last napkin. My last sentence, image, metaphor, and phrase?
Did it sound remarkable or thin?

Did you read it in the moment? Or did it go stale over years unturned?

I have no voice I cannot half-ascribe to you.
I cannot sing with those torn vocal chords.

Is this how you felt, Kopia, moments before the end?
Is this how you found Lithium?
Am I close to failure or success?
Am I close to a new life or death?

Death or Devil — I can’t tell.
Toss me in the fire. See if I burn well.
I might make a paper fire, after all.


I’m waiting for something. I don’t know what. There’s a lot of options — impossible to choose.

A reconciliation. A break-through. A change of heart. A glimmer of hope. A transition into something better or more. Another chance.

None of these are coming.

Only I’ll keep looking because I’m stupid. Keep hoping because I don’t know how to stop. Keep wishing because I think it’ll make the hurting stop.

It won’t.

I need to be angry. Violent and offensive. I want to scream and shout, throw things, yell. I want to purge the pain by letting it out. Breathing fire to vent the trapped smoke. I want to fight, be fought. Break things and be broken back.

As if the spacial pain alleviates things deeper down that I know I can’t escape.

I’ll be haunted for years. For the rest of my life.

Little spirits stuck like glitter to the surfaces of my life. I’ll never scrub them off or pick them all out. I’ll only learn to accept them. Learn to live with them. Learn to explain how and why and when they came. And why I no longer try to escape them.

Desperate from deletion

I wrote a post called “And this, from a calm mind.”
An attempt to process in a positive light. With a smiling mind. In a lotus position sitting on the floor of my heart listening to contained thunderstorms.

It got erased.
I don’t know why.
Technical hang-up, I suppose.
Instead, I wrote this:

Sometimes, the wind interrupts me. I call it a spirit, but I don’t really know what I’m saying. Call it insanity that helps me cope with an impossible reality.

I’ve lost things I’ll never get back.
Losing them changes everything.
I’ve lost words about losing things.
I’ve lost my voice to cry for help.
Lost my spirit to express.
Lost my mind, wind or breath.
Call it all what you want — it’s gone.

One more mis-step, one more incident/accident, one more slip or slip-up. Collectively, everything I’ve done wrong makes the pain unbearable. Makes the weight uncarriable. Makes this darkness untreadable.

I cannot pierce the vacuum with a single thing. It’s growing, swelling, coming. It’s completely swallowing me.

I try, shaking shattered shredded heart, to stand on the edge of night awaiting monsters who, I am certain, will destroy or devour me. Tear my face away. Break my bones and snap my frame. Decimate what’s left of me.

I suppose some people lose body parts to tragedy — pysical pieces of themselves that makes it impossible to go on. I suppose this loss is more spiritual. A lack, not a growing, of a storm.

No motion. Stagnation.
Isn’t this the death I was running from?
It caught up. Caught me.
Caught me on fire.

I’m burning to the sounds of words like I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.

I can’t do anything.

Venice, Italy and other memories

Waves crash white against the beach, but in the bay it’s a slow and steady rippling effect delaying the wearing away of the shore, stealing away inevitable crashing for barely stripping down.

Stripped — a word full of metaphors. Stripped down like a wire. Stripped of all my hope. Stripped from these clothes. Stripping tripping through a dance on a pole. Stripped for your pleasure. Stripped and striped in lashes full of pain.

I’m on the other side of happiness, again.

I remember — long night, warm like a wool blanket pressed against our bare legs, exposed arms. A train came rushing on. Blaring yellow light like the sun. And we stood like silent sentinels, just motionless hands held like chain links locked from shoulder to shoulder. And who knew we’d fail when the pressure came? When the crashing waves came? Who knew those links were so frail they’d fray like fiber optics instead of steel?

Over a river, a high arching bridge led us through a sad, sorrow-riddled city. Metaphors abounded then and in the present now. A tragic trajectory we could not avoid. Like a rainbow in the sky. Like a parabola arching toward the earth. We were set for this course. But the wearing down of purpose and intent dulled the knowledge in our minds, clouded by the slow beat of time.

We got caught up in the current and we lost that line. The thread that bound us to that place in that time. We let it slip across our palms and strip our skin raw. Then we let it go and let it rot.

Now our fingers are burned with the marks. The forgetfulness to keep an ear on the track, keep a weapon at our back, keep the memory of the knowledge of the end. We were like prophets knowing the close of the book, back then.

The beauty of the place could not stop it’s descent into the ocean.
And the lives it would ruin by its dissolution did not quell the sea, did not make the stones rise up against the coming flood. That city sat so quietly as it was drowned to cries of excitement over it’s elegant allure. It’s marvelous curves. It’s twists and turns.

We got lost in those curves, turning always the wrong way, back on ourselves again. Until help was the only way — and the way out had been right before our eyes. A choice we had not wanted to make because we thought it “selling out”.

As soon as we sold out, we saw reality for what it was.
Our narrow minds expanded, then, on water glittering with reflected lights like fireflies skipping through the night. And the wind on our face as the boat carried us back was relief, personified.

I remember sighs I didn’t understand, and one statement that I’ll never forget:

“I’m so screwed.”

If I had only known then what those words would mean now. If I had known what they meant you to at any point.

Another year. And we’ve sunk another meter further and the tenants must move out of their homes. Soon, the square will be unrecognizable and the towers will be but markers in the water where once the city was.

Nothing can save it.
But it is beautiful in its sadness.
And that much — we knew from the start.

A solemn song drifting through interwoven alleyways color the sunset with a sorrowful hum. We do not know the words, nor have we ever heard them. But the harmonies resonate, and we both know why.

The sun, then, was setting on another time. We see it now like looking through a glass into the past. And funny how it doesn’t hurt any more or less. I think, in that darkening square, we must have touched this moment somehow. And known that it would end. And known that it would have been worth it.


Can hardly mince words together. Like mincing garlic, chopping hearts of onions. I keep trying, keep going blurry blind. Like personalities don’t parse the madness; tears don’t purge the washed-outed-ness. Nothing washes clean the surface of the lines I can’t seem to write.

Images deceive me. Bring me back to blind acceptance, like if I say yes, it’ll clear this. Like if I say “I’m sorry” a thousand more times, it’ll undo the tangled lines. Like if I tell one more truth now, it’ll purge the lies.

But green foliage is the last of places I’m lying in. Burnt wood and charcoal dust and stray leaves that didn’t rot in the meltdown. Stray stems that failed to stretch sun-ward. Stray flowers that bloomed but came to nothing.

A flash of color and life that withers and rots with no fruition.

Every angle I pass by, every corner that I cut clean off, every way I try to unthink myself — I’m right back where I was.

I want to take back the past. Rewrite the first draft. Make a better scene, more eloquent, smooth and elegant. Rephrases initial phrases, re-stage integral phases. Replace hollow metaphors and clichés and things I didn’t even think.

This was the run-through, right? Dress rehearsal and our mess-ups didn’t count?

God, I wish that were true. Wish there were more compassion than nihilism, more empathy than self-preservation, more hope than distrust, more love than fear.

I wrote dark dystopic apocalypse because I was trying to envision a better world.
I think I failed.



Gilded like a mirror’s edge
only ever mirrored you.
Guilty, not of love.
Lust, spoiled, rotten through
Trust like mirrors,
is like mirrors,
over mirrored ruined rust.

Tenacious and set.
Lines of lies cooperatively built.
Co-op trust
co-opted by a cooperative lust.

Greed gilded like rich wealth
Settled on industrial rust.
I wanted you for what you’re worth.
A cheap line,
a thin crust.
Brittle break upon the cusp.

Broken like mirrors
shards of blank checks
and blank sheets
and sweaty lust
never once conceived.