Posted in Completely Random!!, Sleepless Nights, Writing Bits

they told me there was nothing past death, and that i should go back.

which is ridiculous now that i think about it. i had just taken the effort to die, and now they were telling me ‘nothing exists beyond the void of the life you knew’; yet their very existence defied their own claims. who knows who or what they were, but they clearly didnt want me there, and so they sent me back. what kind of place we were in, i don’t remember – maybe a room, maybe an empty plain – but somewhere filled with a white fog beyond which you could see nothing.

no, maybe that was it. maybe it was all nothing except for them.

rather than expose their disinformation by pointing out the fact of their presence, i only felt a dull disappointment at the time. they faded from view as time rewound (even though time wasn’t supposed to exist there. curious). as the memories return of that place, surely one of them was God? and He had said that He did not want me.

i found myself back on earth. a younger version of myself might have found the void beyond death a great reason to die, but now with firm confirmation of the absence of any kind of afterlife, the existence of life became much more beautiful and endearing. it would be the only thing i would experience, and that made it all the more precious.

dream logic is something that will ever elude us.

Posted in Writing, Writing Bits

if we don’t survive the night,

i’m glad these last moments are at least spent with you. i’m glad it’s under this godforsaken sky, littered with stars unnamed as we once were. though who’s to say if they too are named; it could be we just don’t know what to call them by yet. we’ll know soon enough.

i’m glad this can be with fresh air in our lungs. with the soft grass beneath us, ready to embrace these receptacles our souls will no longer need as they might birth new life as we move on. will we meet in another life? even if not, a fragment of you will always remain wedged in between the old crevices of my innermost being. one day it might reach out in some invisible force to pull us together again gently and spark a reminder of what we once had, but until then, echoes of a connection stronger than death will still ring in the backs of our consciousness.

i’m glad it’s for a cause like this. one where we calculated the risks and counted this a war worthy of every ounce of our beings. the death of a life fully lived cannot be sad; mourned, yes, but with the knowledge of what was gained, it cannot be grieved for long.

if we don’t survive the night,

i cannot help but be glad

these last moments

at least

have been spent

with you.

Posted in Writing, Writing Bits

when the voice tells you the visions can be real if you extinguish your own light,

it’s lying. i know the feeling: a yellow sheet begins to fog over the room as a deepset sorrow takes hold in in the innermost parts of your soul. fantasies begin to swim over your eyes — you may as well be drifting between multiple worlds in which any reality could easily be the real one, and the only thread that keeps you tied to this ground is the one with the little ba-bump, ba-bumps of a steady rhythm that you sometimes take for granted at this point.

‘why can’t everyone be happy?’

it reminds you of how lonely you feel because there’s no one to talk to; not anyone real at least. today doesn’t feel real anymore either, even if you may have been experiencing it only minutes ago with someone else. now that that person’s gone, you wonder if it was a dream, or if this is the dream, and if you can just wake yourself up with that hard enough tug that things will somehow turn out to be the way that they feel they’re supposed to be.

‘you should be happy too.’

the visions are far more beautiful than they should be, and are here just beyond your fingertips. if only, whispers the voice, and its fingers begin to reach out to you; but this is why i’m telling you it’s lying. the pictures it shows aren’t real, aren’t instances you can grasp if you just hold your breath for long enough. the door it promises is not as seamless as it’d have you think, and the visions of utopia that you see never waited that close by — not that effortlessly, not without time or energy. it would have you lying on the floor alone, but just wait; wait, you know what lies beyond.

Posted in Writing Bits

self-hatred

the words were just in my mouth,

but something just snatched them away so that

all the screaming

and the pointing fingers

and the crying

and the self-hatred

stop suddenly and leave me with nothing.

the abrupt darkness is a blissful emptiness.

then your words echo back with a lag after you stop to think,

and all that comes to mind is a bitter resentment that

apparently has lasted over

four years now;

not toward you

maybe toward you

but mostly toward someone who was close to everyone

except me when i needed Him most.

and the voices are back.

and i hate them all.

Posted in Completely Random!!, Writing, Writing Bits

the angst from the conversation we just tried to have.

static begins to play in the silence in which you expect an answer. an answer won’t be given; i’ve forgotten the question at this point, and the thoughts have been fleeing from my head. maybe they’re trying to protect me by keeping it blank. is it blank? no, there’s a song playing in the background, and the voices have been changing out in fragments like there are five people inside talking at once. what are they talking about, i wonder. the blood pounds in my head. what started as a bit of tiredness has evolved into the beginnings of what i know to be a battering headache. i put a cold hand to my warm forehead.

corona, says one thought ironically.

i think i was happy yesterday. i think i was even happy today, but then it’s not my happiness anymore. it’s a stranger’s, and warm liquids are threatening to spill out. my eyes. my nose. my head just banged against the table. what do i even feel right now.

uh. nothing anymore. the tissues are warm on my desk and there’s a stain on my jeans.

shit.

f- f- f- f- f- a word repeats in my head until i don’t remember what it means. i think my fingers aren’t working anymore. the feelings are gone and instead of a sniveling pity party inside, there’s just a cold corridor filled with spiderwebs. is this body mine? i don’t think so. there are even soundwaves beating against my eardrums that should maybe make something happen inside. it used to sometimes. the tears are long gone now though, and my throat didn’t even get to scream.

huh. hello?

i never liked you.

Posted in Writing, Writing Bits

sit and listen

to the rain of the night

as it taps gently on the windows,

asking allowance into your comfortable abode.

sit and listen to the sounds

from the businessman splashing his way home,

to the farmer praising the sky,

to the poor man shivering by a pail of dripped water,

to the slipping of the earth as it crumbles down to the abyss.

sit and listen to the pain;

sit and listen to the peace;

sit and listen to life.

just sit. just listen. just live.

Posted in Writing, Writing Bits

Ride Any High, Swing on the Lows, Bring on the Blows

There was a flashing light that he looked forward to seeing any day, whether it was playing music, skateboarding, gaming, dancing — whatever it was, the light would flash in and out, a smile, a delighted laugh, a skillful stroke that painted art and created and redid whatever it touched.

You can think back to it now, and you know it was beautiful, which makes today worse when you look at what remains: the broken shell of someone who still holds the power for so many things if she only knew how to live, if there was just a manual to help someone who used to find joy in everything but now breaks off in conversations to stare at something like she’s thinking, ‘maybe it’s a mistake for me to be here or anywhere anymore’; at which you try to distract her but at the end of another day you can’t help but wonder if she’ll be able to hang on until the next time.

I forgot how much music would express anyone in the right hands, and her music is screaming, so how can anyone doubt the endless void she plays her soul hoarse into, how can someone doubt a darkness that cups its hands over the listener’s ears and still only conveys a fraction of what she’s been battling against day after day after day?

When he asks what she’ll do, she mocks herself for not finishing her work; you know she might be mocking herself for not finishing herself every day she has the chance.

But someday that darkness begins to be pierced, if it begins with the smallest light of a star. It can be gradual. It will get to the point where music becomes a joy again, not a necessity to say something at last. Let her hold on.

Posted in Sleepless Nights, Writing, Writing Bits

All Her Tears Be Washed Away

when i go don’t cry for me

in my Father’s arms i’ll be

How many years it’s been now, it doesn’t really matter; time becomes irrelevant and each day morphs into the next dreary day of sitting, existing, a drag of moving forward. Wake up in pain, move out to the living room in exhaustion, pain, weariness, pain, pain, numb pain and yet the sharpest kind.

They call life a battle or a war — in these cases, the terms hardly seem to apply when it only feels like you’re being trampled down with each wave that you can never truly fight against. Helpless. The word comes to mind more than once. Helpless to fight for a loved one, only waiting, loving, praying it can turn out differently.

the wounds this world left on my soul

will all be healed and i’ll be whole

An older woman — a twig, really, skin and bones after long hard days with her only source of nutrition coming from a tube for however long it’s been now — lay in the bed of a hospice, her white hair only just beginning to grow back from months of chemo, with her tired husband sleeping next to her through the night. They knew it would likely be her last. She was off support. The pain was greater than ever. Oh, God, take it away.

The room was so dark. The softest bed could not have made this comfortable in any way. It was so alone in this room despite the fact that there were two — no, three people. One lurked in the corner, a dark shadowy figure, watching and waiting as the pain continued to throb in her entire body, and she knew it was coming for her very soon even as her eyes began to slowly close.

sun and moon will be replaced with the light of Jesus’ face

and i will not be ashamed, for my Saviour knows my name

As the dark figure hovered through the black room toward her, her eyes opened again as she felt something else; not the dark presence, but something that could only feel like music. Soft music. Familiar music like she may as well have heard it all her life, but only just remembered it now as she heard someone call her name in the most loving, most awesome, most indescribable voice she had ever known: ‘Sarah!’

The dark figure lurched for her. A strong gentle hand pulled her up in a loving embrace just before it reached her.

it don’t matter where you bury me

i’ll be home and i’ll be free

A few hours later, her husband awoke and made the call first to their three grown children, and then the rest of the family, friends…

Sarah was with her Father.

it don’t matter anywhere i lay

all my tears be washed away . . .


lyrics from Ane Brun’s ‘All My Tears.’

love you auntie Sarah. You made a huge impact on the lives of everyone around you. Jealous of you, but also happy for you. Say hi to everyone for us.

Posted in Completely Random!!, Writing, Writing Bits

This Is a Code.

Don’t take it seriously. But it’s a code. A would-be cry for help, if anyone knew how to read it. To read between the lines.

TheIchild iswhidingafromnatmonster, andtit’soasking fordhelp.iIt’sefar.away.TItafeelslalone.kIt cantcommunicate,obut onlyminecode.,It usesstheointernet,mbuteonlyoasncode.eEverything.it.writes.is a code.

HWilleanyonelcrackpit?.

Please.