March 10th, Year of Silence

All my life, I have suffered from recurring nightmares. Some dreams become dark prophecies to the believer, or unfortunate coincidences to the skeptic. As always, I exist in between, finding that it has been a combination of both.

Looking to avoid one nightmare in particular, I stay wide awake past the quiet hours. I listen closely for noises that indicate someone is attempting to break into my home. Because in those dreams, I never get out unscathed. In fact, I do not get out at all. I am broken by rape and tight fists.

I refuse to be owned by any man or experience. If I am not my own yet, then I do not know whose I am, or what can happen when I cannot be claimed. I suppose I am much like an unfashionable coat, forgotten in the attic. One day I will be found, and life would not have missed a beat; the world would have continued its spin.

The Corpse has asked that we be friends, like two peas in a frying pan. Always feeling the heat of a fire we started. Now I say nothing. I watch him greet me with an aggressive waving of hands, and I say nothing. I am a good and eager student of all men, of angry ants, of make-believe gods, of dusty books.

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March 10th, Year of Silence

March 1st, Year of Silence

I can hear someone playing the violin. Sound carries well throughout the neighborhood. Droplets of water release pungent odors. It seeps in through my window, ever so slightly open. It is oils intermingling with weeds. It is cat fur and dead flowers.

 
The person is only beginning to learn their instrument. I think they should play this way forever. Let it be ferocious and from the heart. Like a monster behind the tree. The one you know you can befriend, if it would just let itself be seen. It is wild, the way most things should be.

The truth is faithful to itself. That is why so many find it repulsive. Our allegiance is often to external things. Alone, we are lost. Made up of only ourselves, we are nothing. A lie can be manipulated, it can be played with, it is interactive. Lies change depending on circumstances. It is a life that we create, and can go on to survive on its own. It makes a minor god out of us.

Joseph has apologized to me. He has expressed remorse. He has made a minor god of himself.

March 1st, Year of Silence

February 18th, Year of Silence

Some things were meant to end abruptly. A relationship, an experience, a life. Virginia is dead. It was a collision, head-on and gruesome. I have heard the details from her father, who believes he is at fault, after making a pact with the Santa Muerte; the terms of which he could not follow through on. He is obsessed with the idea that his daughter was taken away as punishment.

Of course, this was no collection of debt by a folk saint. This was a woman kept awake for days by her drug of choice, and coming down on the road. This was a methamphetamine mistake that ended her life, severely injuring two others. Now, her children will grow up parented by a grandmother who has already done too much, and perhaps that is where she went wrong. This grandmother will continue to provide, as she has always done. And I think, does this matter? Could it? The children’s father, lost to suicide. Their mother, lost to a different kind of suicide. Their future is not brightly lit by any kind of hope.

I have been kept awake by flashing images of her suffering. I half-expect to see her by my bedside, seeking out a company that eluded her when she was alive. In the last year, there were few she could turn to. We were all driven away by her addiction.

I do not make the rules. If I did, a woman would not lose her life at twenty-three. Not so with so much terror shaking the beat out of her heart. Not so far from her mother.

All that is left to say is: Goodnight, Virginia.

February 18th, Year of Silence

February 8th, Year of Silence

I swear it now, I am clean. There is not an ounce of dishonesty in that sentence. It is all over, and past the hill. I cannot be found where I was last placed, and The Corpse has enough shame to not seek.

 

Eventually, it will all unravel to reveal a treasure, or nothing at all. It is in being faced with the latter, just when one was prepared to build a kingdom funded by a child‘s weight in gold coins, that will lead to a loud insanity. But not for me. I am not unsettled, after finding nothing. I am glad for it.

The infrequent laughter Joseph and I shared, was always so heavy with hurt. What had weight, was harmed by it. What needed substance, lacked it. There were no promises ever made that could survive the night. Those with better sense would have seen they were in a building in such a state of disrepair, that they would surely lose life or limb, if they did not quickly see a way out of it. But Joseph chose to stay, and he would not let me move without an act of desperation or violence.

Last night, after Joseph recited a speech centered on the topic of love and how he lacked any for me, I asked that he control any urges to see me in the future. He passively agreed. It was then that a primal fear invaded me. He had passively agreed so many times before, only to hunt and trap me days later. My soft complaints barely registered. Most would say I was a willing hostage. And while I knew holding such an opinion was an error, it was clear that there would be no hero appearing through the rain to save me, as there had been no evidence of his existence yet. So why hadn’t I made a more forceful attempt to escape?

As The Corpse turned to walk away from me, I stopped him. I needed to say something that would cause him to turn away forever. Something that would produce a permanent sense of repulsion, when thoughts of me came to mind.

“I know why your mother never loved you. How could she? Look at you. It is obvious that you will never amount to anything. You have been worthless the whole way through. Not one other person can say that they have so thoroughly failed at everything they have done. Your father can see that, too. It is why you will always be alone. No matter how desperate your need for affection, you will never gain the approval you long for,” I said.

And just like that, my voice left. Not because I had run out of things to say, but because his hands were firmly gripping my throat.
He let go after I had slumped over his shoulder, half-unconscious. We sat in silence as I regained full awareness. Then, he told me to go home and sleep.

I would spend the next week in a stupor. He has offered no apology, and I have none to spare.

February 8th, Year of Silence

January 26th, Year of Silence

To become like someone else, no matter how much I may admire the person, is a tragic thing. To become like my mother, is worse by far. There lies the woman, bride of Morpheus, resentful from never being heard, but she rarely speaks a word. And now, I frown like her. I love those that will not, or cannot return my love, like her. I hang on to depression like a friend that will turn into a noose, like her.

The Underworld is not my world. Hell is not my world. I was not born into either, but have foolishly traveled through both. It is with this same stupidity leading my course, that I believed I could see my way in and out of all lands safely.

One could learn through pain and suffering in Hell. One could learn from the dead in the Underworld. I would never get stuck in transition. I am not an explorer in my own dimension, but I knew the password that allowed me free reign in other realms. I was given permission, and freedom to journey as I pleased. But I did not take one thing into account. All of this exists solely in the mind. They are someone else’s blueprints, to be sure, yet I am the one who saw its construction. Brick by brick, it is my creation. And as such, it would always be only as stable as my mind. Who will call me back, when only I can exist in that space.

January 26th, Year of Silence