Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I — like hopefully all of you — have a lot to be thankful for: There are people in my life who really love me and whom I love. My body is healthy. I have an income. I have no real unmet need of any kind. I have the possibility of tomorrow, and, unlike other times in my life, I’m actually excited about that possibility.
In addition to all these things, this year I am also thankful for this, this blog and what it represents. When I started ToHearLife.com back in June, I had two main goals: to make writing an integral part of my life, and to get over my fear of other people reading what I write. These were for the purpose of the greater goal, which is to one day be a full-time writer. While I’m still millions of words and countless submissions away from that goal, I’m grateful that I have achieved the first two goals of making writing an essential part of my life and being, not only unafraid, but desirous of people reading what I write (cut to me checking my blog stats every night before bed).
But beyond helping me meet my current writing goals, this blog has also been helpful in ways I hadn’t foreseen. It’s pushed me forward, not only in my literary aspirations, but also in the mental, emotional, spiritual, and even social aspects of my life.
He stood nervously on the ledge, his hands flung back to grip the steel railing. It was winter, and he could feel the skin on his fingers stick to the metal. But the cold didn’t matter. He had finally gathered the courage to come out here to the very edge, and all that was left was to take the final step forward. He looked down to the street below. There was no one there. It was just him and the silver light of the stars.
He inched forward so that only the soles of his bare feet remained on the cement. He leaned forward and felt his chest expand at the stretch. He squeezed his hands tighter around the railing. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, wanting to feel the cold air flow through his body and into his lungs as slowly as possible. He wanted to feel everything, for once in his life.
One more breath, he thought. One more breath, and then one last step. One more breath, and then…
Stretch out my arms
To meet your gaze
Bring our distance close
To find our meeting end.
I reach for your face
As you reach for my throat
There’s no greater sound
Than my words left unsaid.
Our twisting bodies twist,
Together,
And away.
Find our meaning in the way
You never let me see your face.
Together,
Then away,
Through the “nowhere else to be”,
Familiarity beats out courage
In a wasted land of space.
We’re stuck in this same town,
Same music,
Drinking the same drink,
Filling the same cemeteries,
At the end of our days.
Do not let me go,
Or I will fall away.
I fall away
At your gaze,
At your voice,
At your skin touching mine.
I fall away at every word you’ve ever said.
Stretch out my arms to chain you by my side.
You wanted to leave — I let you —
But now you’re here for my name
You choke out in endless echoes.
Together,
Then away,
Through the “time has ceased to be”.
I return to our courage-less bars,
Our courage-less songs,
Our frequented cemeteries.
Bury me beneath your ground.
I fall away
At your name,
At your face,
At your eyes slicing mine.
I fall away at every word you’ve ever said.
Stretch out my arms
To morph your body into mine.
Forever I’ll choke on your fist down my throat.
Tell me you don’t love me, just one more time,
And I’ll fall away at every word you’ve never said.
She walked out the door and went to stand by the street. She knew it wasn’t time yet, but she couldn’t wait inside any longer. Perhaps if she waited outside it would make him come faster. It was irrational, she knew, but she wondered it just the same. After having waited for so long for this day to come, she would try anything, irrational or not, to make their meeting time arrive. She felt she could not wait one more second.
But she’d have to wait, because she had been outside for half an hour now, 15 minutes past their agreed-upon time, and he still had not come. Tired of standing and having worn out all her nervous energy by pacing back and forth, she plopped down on the curb. She looked at her feet and noticed the many cigarette butts scattered around her. She had gone through half a pack. “He better come soon,” she said aloud to no one, “and he better have cigarettes.”
She walked in to find him lying face-down on the floor in the middle of the room. The afternoon rays shone directly onto his back as though he was the center of the sun’s attention.
For a moment she stood at the edge of the room watching his torso rise and fall with his breathing. He didn’t sleep much, but when he did, it was deep and it was for a long time.
She slipped off her shoes and crossed the living room to the kitchen. She unpacked and put away the groceries, still watching him. Then she took the unfinished bottle of wine he had left on the counter and went to sit on the floor next to him.
She took a sip of wine as her eyes traveled up his body to rest on his peaceful, beautiful face. She wondered what he was dreaming about. He always said he didn’t remember his dreams – “It’s just blissful unconsciousness, babe” – but she liked to think that as he slept he lived all that he could never quite reach when he was awake: having a carefree smoke with his younger brother who had been refusing to talk to him for the past three years; finally tracking down the man he had foolishly sold his grandfather’s pistol to when he was 19 and in need of money; holding in his arms the baby they had been trying for so long to have. She wished, so much, that in his dreams he would find himself happy.
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