you have the prettiest eyes

I’m haunted and always have been, but the ghosts are quiet lately, the demons sleeping, maybe, but I still can’t. Never could. Never will. An hour here, an hour tomorrow, and a few more as the week collapses into the next.

It makes me feel better.

If I still had a soul it could maybe heal it. I would like to dance. I would like to sing.

And so I shall, off until the night becomes day once more and I’ll close my eyes no more.

ash cinema

Listening to that all morning will maybe lead into an odd day, but that feeling of otherness, it’s something that never leaves a child, no matter how old he becomes.

Birthdays make me think of mortality, which always leads me to suicide, and that rendition is so heartbreaking. I’m sure most people who visit this page have already seen that video, but that crack in his voice at creep fractures so much inside me. And there are days I no longer desire to live, but today is not one of those days.

I feel alive, though sad. Sad for I don’t know why. It’s something one never grows out of, I suppose, and it may be the peculiarity and impossibility of other humans. Every day gets odder and nothing makes sense and there are all these people who want so much to be a part of my life and I can never imagine or understand why.

I appreciate it and I thank them in my own way, which is to say, Silently and internally. The kindness I receive from people is so profound and ever present that I will never be able to repay it, not in a year or a life or a thousand lives. And so I do what I can and try to make those I meet a little happier, though I likely am always failing. But it’s true, how kind everyone is to me. It sometimes fills me up to the point of explosion and it could break my heart, leave me a weeping mess, just wanting to thank you all so much for smiling and not frowning, for laughing and not crying, for showing me the way, leading me by the hand, not pushing me away.

And how could I kill myself today believing that? I don’t know if my life is special or unique or significantly different from anyone else’s but it’s the one I have and choose to have and for people to at least feign the illusion that it matters means it’s probably worth it, that every breath should just keep coming.

Maybe some of these people will remember me the way I remember them. Maybe some will love me the way I love them.

I have a novel coming out, which I should probably say more about. It’s coming out through Pablo D’Stair’s KUBOA, which is very cool. Designed for availability, not profit, which is the way art should be: free and accessible. Economics should have no play here, and so I’m actually quite glad I’ll be having my first novel come out through Mr D’Stair’s arthouse press. Of course, technically, it’s the third novel I finished, and I’m still counting on a slightly higher goal for my first and fourth novels. The second novel might be a hidden little thing forever, maybe.

The novel is about memory and death and love. What else could it possibly be about? If you come here often [which is likely no one], that shouldn’t surprise you. Truthfully, everything I’ve ever written is about these three aspects of life.

I love you across time and space but this won’t last.

One day I’ll burn away, my ashes washed away, my words all lost and forgotten.