Stagnant. 2009-2011.

Love is hate. Nobody dies.

"Collect your things."
She whispered gently in my ear as I was beginning to wake.
"There is something amiss. I can't name it, I can't place it." We had been out roaming all these dirt highways for some time now. The kind that you hear about in old books. The kind men on the run would take to. It's been quite some time since we've had a steady place to sleep. So long that I can't remember a time when the trees didn't pass and the scenery stayed the same. We would stay off the beaten path, avoiding all others. Though she had been by my side for years we had our problems. It was never perfect but we made do with what we had, which wasn't much. The packs on our back were chalk full of the last remnants of what life we had before all this. The fading scraps of legal documents, photos and letters from loved ones told a gut wrenching tale. Our packs would swell and wither with the changing weather. At the depths the papers started to mold together, but we just couldn't yet let go of the attached memories.

We're on the cusp of Winter now. The trees had been the most beautiful amber color, but were slowing looking as dead as we feel. The day we couldn't feel our feet is the day we couldn't feel anything. The frigid charcoal beasts that loomed over head seemed to concentrate their tears on us. Dragging through mud, leaves and grass our legs began to feel the full pressure of the weight we carried. All the baggage in tow. This night we took shelter underneath a tree, with a tarp we drapped over a branch to dry out for bit. After hours huddling we finally sleep.

I awoke with such intensity, looking around I see no one. A sigh of relief and I roll over only to
find a stone cold and pale face, she lay there not breathing, not moving. As soon as the tears began I put my arm around her, my face hit hers. I tried my best to warm her up, but in the back of my mind I knew there was nothing I could do. With a small prayer to her face I leave.

"I hope you're in a better place, my dear. Where your legs can rest and the weather is warm. Without you I cannot for the life of me see a point to doing this any longer. I am slowly, but surely on my way to join you."

This is the death of me.

Stretch out the coiled phone cord, pressing the receiver to my ear only to find the dial tone has abandoned. Dead set in front of me on the dinning table lays the holster, so I return it to its rightful place. Phone calls never quite go through anymore. The hours I would spend dialing and hanging up always soured me. Only a few ever graced the other end. And what started out to be run-of-the-mill discourse, surely as the sun does set over every godless land, would come to a close with a quick statement laced with disgust. I'd sit for another moment waiting to make sure they were actually gone, sure enough. Why was it that I could never predicate the right words?
I shouldn't bother any longer. I persist. Some say, "don't call someone who's always waiting by the phone.." I can't agree.

You can't know whats tearing through someones head until you ask.

I want you to bother me. The missing voices from my life are causing a day by day decay. When no one is talking and no one is listening, what's the point in living? My words go unheard. Not even on deaf ears, no ears at all. I wish you'd call. A day, a week, a month passes, then a few months. With all the lights off I stand on the edge of the chair, the cord wrapped
tightly around my neck. With a swift push on the back of the chair I dangle. As my windpipe collapses and my eyes blur, the only thing I can mutter is "any one of you could have saved me."

My Home, Disentegration

A long time coming, in a windowless room. A dim light overhead sheds no insight to this situation.
The rains have become second nature. As a result the flooding rots the wood, medicating anything it touches with mold and mildew. The carpet has disappeared through the dark murky water. Scratches in the paint tell a subtle story of a man going mad. A world unknown a world away.

At the bottom of the door the wood starts to swell and split, an acting sponge, soaking up the liquid to send higher the ever spreading disease. A months time will take it towards to ceiling, eight months time will completely enclose this hell. Releasing particles, airborn into stagnant air. Inhaling, and coming to a collective rest on the floor of my lungs. The trickle that flows in from behind this bedroom door brings the water level up slightly everyday that passes. The only familiarity is a light discoloration on the wall where a cross hung. Faith, where has it gone? A time not so long ago I thrived, strived and tried. Everything was within arms reach, had a life I could adore. When you least expect it the walls will start to close in on you, the air will compress. Simple things like breathing, seeing and living become obsolete. You'll learn to ignore the humidity, the claustrophobia and the lonliness. A paste will form in your mouth, your voicebox still have the price tags attached to it. As unused as my muscles
as useless as the thoughts trapped in your mind.

I lean out over the xedgex. It is a long way down and I am not sure if this water is deep enough to soften the the impact. The ledge I've been perched on for so long finally erodes from the passing tide, from under this strain. Now I can see what used to be the floor boards, now a fermenting cesspool. I take the plunge, and I'm paddling out as fast as I can, not looking back. There won't be any saved breath for the swim back.

This is the living hell I've created, a place to call my own, a home of sorts.

Greener Grass

"I hate y..." She said, I slammed the door as she punched down on the gas pedal. She never showed up to pick up her things and I never called. I adorned my life with searching, I pulled up the roots and left. Disposed of ninety percent of all my belongings, I didn't belong. 2,000 miles later I picked up in a small town called Wayne in eastern Nebraska. With something like a 9,000 person population figured I could tear away from the foundation I set back home and start anew.A job presented itself in the form of refrigeration repair, For Hansen's Fridge.I started on a Wednesday morning first thing. Met my co-workers and hit it off right away. Later that evening they treated me to a beer at the local bar, where the trash hid in darkened corners and left the taste of mold in your mouth.
Months had passed and life was beginning to settle, I felt alive and with every intention to stay alone.I lived above a thrift store downtown in a small one bedroom apartment. Cozy and tidy, i had picked up a couch that was left back in the alley behind my place, but not much else.People were always leaving trash and treasures back there as a donation to the thrift store. I'd hear their cars come screeching to a halt followed by quickly slamming car doors and quiet talking. It was considered "dumping" but after hours they continued to unload load after load.
This particular day I awoke to crashing glass, glancing out the hazy windows overlooking main street I see a local man's truck had jumped the curb and smashed into a power across the street. He stumbles out and with amazement looks at the damage to his old Ford. I step back, away from the bright winter sky. 6:47 in the morning and i have to be at work by 8a.m. I might as well stay awake, I tell myself. I head to work as usual. Something is different, something has changed.I no longer like feel this was my home any longer. I still have bills to pay, so I trudge on. Days pass, weeks pass, months pass and I can feel the loneliness hiding in every corner of mind. Its a plague, a spreading wild fire. Ravaging the small plains in my head. Soon overwhelming, I start to feel the decent into my bones and it reverberates leaving behind a resin covering every inch of me. A coating that I can not get off of my skin.
You can't help but feel alone in this life, when everyone you know leaves to get lost somewhere new. Something is missing and I can't seem to place a finger on it.How have we grown so dependant, to serve the needs of everyone around us? Why must we place ourselves at the feet of the people we love, bow, beg, repeat, repeat, repeat.Living alone in an enclosed box exclaimed as life. These days are a reoccurring nightmare.

I have become the solitude of winter. There will be no warm weather ahead.

Exit Signs

The smell of sterility here is making me nauseous. The hours have passed right through me and I've been sitting so long my back is aching. The sharpness of my injury brings all my focus back to this room. My wife,rest her soul, passed away six years ago. She was driving home from visiting her sister in Vermont when a truck side swiped her compact car. The depression that comes with being states away and not being able to be there in the last few minutes of the person you loves life was not easily bearable.In a few failed attempts when I was at my lowest, I drove recklessly through the back service roads hoping that anything would end this frustration and hatred for myself. Six years have gone by and nothing has changed. Her clothes are where she left them. Her toothbrush, although untouched still lay on the same shelf collecting dust. The days have become longer than twenty fours hours now, a day has become a month and my life drags on.
The middle aged woman two seats down is coughing up a lung, she just arrived moments ago. I over hear a nurse tell another that she had been flying in a jumbo passenger jets, passing over the checked farm lands that are the Midwest when she suddenly fell off her seat and started to convulse. They quickly landed the plane at the nearest airport to dispense her into the closest hospital. Here she is, her mucus, pressurized, traveling up her throat until its airborne, floating towards me and other patients.
Just when i thought my life would be starting, retired and finally having the money to travel. All of my plans cut short. i fear the worst is coming. I patiently wait my turn. Hours pass, another eight hours and i can barely stand it.Finally my name is called as a thirty something year old lady comes through the door.I follow her through the double doors, as she asks how i am feeling. "not good"I mutter as I clear my throat. She takes me to another waiting room where I can wait by myself. Finally a semi-cozy chair and silence. A few moments go by and a tall man walks in, perfect posture and staring at a chart. He asks two questions about my prior health, eyes glued to the paper in his sterile hands. He tells me,"I'll be right back" and walks out. I am left waiting again. I decide to lay down on the recliner chair, i fall asleep. I wake up to gripping the sides of the chair.White knuckled, my neck closes up, and as the lady from the plane coughs in the next room, my vision blurs. I can see her sitting on a swing, my wife, she is looking at me with those beautiful blues. A hint of a smile and my world goes black before the rush.