"All my love was down, in a frozen ground."

I feel as though the only connection left between us is through the existence of this blog. This virtual bridge is the only way that I can convey my feelings to you without you getting angry. You know, it kills me to see that this is the only way I can talk to you anymore. I can pretend that you come here and read sometimes and never respond. It's like you're listening. I suppose in this twisted way I still have a sister. The thought is somewhat reassuring sometimes, but I know that it's only denial. But pretending is the only way that I can still claim I have a sister.

Cattails

On the eve of summer
we would sit in wait
for the horizon to melt with night

We fashioned worn rags

and black, rubber boots
Our arsenal contained
a roped net and turquoise bucket 

The window, still dewed

and chilled from a slumber
Liquid gold
touched the tips of oak trees
And we knew

We did not run,
we frolicked
in celebration of the sun

She was left, I was right
She, the piece, I, the glue
Nothing quite as mighty as blood

And when night swallowed gold
street lights guided us home
We named every toad
and giggled and joked

Then I turned and uttered
for her to hold open her hand
I gingerly placed a brown cattail
in that small, muddy palm

She appeared baffled, so I said,
"This cylinder contains your dreams.
When you are ready, break it open.
Set them free."

And those round eyes lit up
brighter than that day's sun
"Now I don't ever have to worry.
Because they're all right here.
I'll never lose them."

Annabelle

He had seen her many times before in the stale bed of sheets that resembled a cloud. Her face, always gleaming with sweat, was round and pale. Tousled, dark hair fell over her petite shoulders and partially into her glowering green eyes. Her skin was that of paper, thin and fragile to the touch. It hurt him to see such harsh lines running from her fair skin to noisy machines. He wanted nothing more than to rip away those pesky lines and free her from her cage of bones. But he would never dare, for her very life force depended upon the function of those thin lines.

It was but a month ago that she was first admitted in such a disintegrated form. A month ago he had been a mechanical ghost, lost in a confusing world. At this weak point of his life, she taught him the ways she thought the world worked. He found her captivating and insightful, and as anemic as she was, she helped him lift the weights off his shoulders. They talked very often, conversing about books mostly. He brought her flowers daily because he loved the momentary light she showed on her ill face.

He knew the complications he created for her and himself, he knew the consequences of the predicted aftermath. He was meant to facilitate her healing, which he was of course still doing, and nothing more. But only a blind man would be able to avoid such a significant hold. He loved the warmth he had yearned for so long. It was easy to forget the complexity of the situation they had been thrown into because of the temporary illusion they had made for themselves.

“Oliver, please stay with me tonight. I’m so chilled and it’s so bright in this room.” Annabelle pleaded to him as he stared out the large, rectangular window into the black abyss. He turned and looked at the shadowy, thin figure on one of the beds. He had been off duty for some time now, but something in him had made him opt to stay a few more hours. By now the night shift was already in motion, and he knew that his replacement would check on Annabelle soon.

“Of course I’ll stay with you, I’d like nothing more.” He said, smiling. He watched as she carefully shifted to the right side of the bed. He climbed in on the left. She held his left hand in both of her frigid ones, tracing the creases of hard work with a bony finger.

“I wonder if death feels like this.” She murmured softly.

“Don’t speak of such things.” Oliver said in a hushed tone.

“Will you come see Paris with me some day?” She asked, her dull eyes looking up into Oliver’s iridescent blue ones.

“Yes, of course. We’ll need to know French first, however.” He chuckled.

Annabelle pondered for a moment.

“How long would that take?”

“If you have enough determination, not too long.”

Annabelle smiled to herself. She too had never experienced the warmth that came with companionship. Even through her frozen, brittle bones she could feel it like the radiant sun on her skin. She had grown fond of Oliver quickly in the beginning, for she had fancied his kindness and smile. But with time, she observed his hardships with society and eventually felt sympathy for him as well.

‘Don’t seek acceptance from others, you will only receive endless chagrin and emptiness. You need only to seek acceptance for yourself, and that is what really matters.’

‘And of my place?’ He had asked.

‘If you do not know you’re place in this world yet, you will with time. You will figure out what you were meant to do if you only have the patience to wait for the answer. I still do not know my place.’

“Listen, Annabelle. I have something for you but you don’t have to accept it.” Oliver said slowly. She could see that there was something off in the way that he acted on this night, and it worried her ceaselessly.

“What is it?” She asked softly, watching as he fished for something in his uniform pocket. She felt her heart explode from both joy and sadness as her blank eyes took in the shape of two silver bands.

“Oliver . . .” She began, but he gently took her bony left hand and placed the silver ring around her fourth finger and did the same to his own hand.

“I know,” He murmured, “I know that this is absurd, but I want to be married to you. You have shown me this life in a new light and you’re the kindest soul I have ever encountered.”

Annabelle couldn’t speak, so she nodded her head slowly. She viewed him in the same way. He understood her silent words, and they both rested their heads on the pillow.

It was a foggy image of two visions intermingling together. A healthy and beautiful young woman with an infant stood beside a strapping young man in front of a quaint little cottage. They stood with happiness strewn across their faces and silver bands on their fingers. The image was golden and glowing like an old film, replaying the same scene over and over. But the infant is no longer to be seen and the woman turns to the man and gives a peck on his cheek and squeezes his right hand. Horror strikes the man’s features and he tries to speak, but his voice does not exist. She gives him the kindest of smiles as her image begins to fade to nothing more than an apparition. As she finally fades to nothing, the scene turns from golden to blinding snow as the man’s name is repeatedly called from outside this realm.

“Oliver! Oliver!”

“What is it?” Oliver groaned as white turned to color. As he blinked sleep from his eyes, he looked about the now lighted room at several figures in coats that stood before him gaping and looking horrified. The closest standing by him was his fellow co-worker Winifred.

“Oliver, please come with me. Quickly.” Winifred pleaded her eyes huge and rimmed with plight. Fear struck Oliver. He was only supposed to stay a few hours with Annabelle, but he had fallen asleep.

Annabelle.

It was as if in slow motion. Each horrified face increased in horror as Oliver turned slowly to his right and set his shocked eyes on a very still Annabelle. He felt fooled only for a split second, telling himself she always slept with such stillness. And then the silence was disturbed with shrill yells. He wailed over her body, clutching her hand with the silver band. His face rushed with water as he gazed into that same peaceful face, waiting for life to spring back into it. The people around him tried to gently remove him from the lifeless body, telling him over and over that she was gone. But he didn't need to hear it aloud, he knew all along; from the moment that they had met that she was gone. From the moment he had read her illness and prognosis on his clipboard. Her whole life she was destined for this demise. She had been a girl controlled by the very bones that kept her captive- the very bones that raged its cancerous ways on her weak body.

By now Oliver was getting quite aggressive with fending off people who tried to remove him from Annabelle. So aggressive that two male doctors had to snatch him by the arms and drag him outside the room where his wails could still be heard. It caused quite the commotion, for heads popped out of nearby hospital rooms to observe what was going on. The two doctors kept their grasp on him while he struggled to get free. The head doctor was pacing back and forth in the hallway before them, his face etched with seriousness. He turned to Oliver.

“I don’t care to know why you formed such a relationship with a bone cancer patient. It’s foolish. You’re a nurse, you know what to expect in these situations and yet you still allowed it to happen.” He said, but then his face turned sympathetic. “I’m giving you three weeks to grieve, cope, whatever you have to do to get over this. Three weeks.”

Annabelle might not have known her place in the world, but Oliver did. She was sent to save him from this cruel life and himself, just as his place was to do the same for her. He didn't need three weeks to grieve. Later that night he fancied a rope around his neck to cope and joined Annabelle in the clouds. He had said he wanted to be married to Annabelle and he meant it, whether living or behind golden gates.

"Move dust through the light, to fide your name."

Ah, reflections. That point in a person's life where they must sit back in a stiff, old computer chair like myself and just remember, think. I do it too much for my own good, whether in writing or plain thought. Sometimes I wish that I could write actual pieces of literature rather than the sputtering of my ordinary, ridiculous life. I haven't written anything real in a long while. I'm sure it's one of those really bothersome and frustrating slumps that some writers experience once and a while. But one this long? Anyway, all of these recent entries in my blog haven't been submitted without great distress. I haven't been feeling well lately. Mentally, I mean. My head is fuzzy, dull, fatigued, weighed down. After years of practice, I've been quite good at subduing this pain to a dull hum. But other times it gets the best of me and before I know it I've let it escape and my chest begins to rip in half as if it's imploding. If I die from anything it'll be from Broken Heart Syndrome- a fitting disease for someone who is capable of feeling so much that they experience physical pain. Lucky me. Other people don't know that someone with a quality such as caring isn't all good. If you let it consume you too much, it controls you, and you end up worrying and having anxiety attacks until it exhausts the crap out of you. I wish I could worry about something simplistic. It always has to be complicated with me I guess. Sometimes I wish the circuits worked differently in my brain, so that I didn't have to worry or be sad about something all the time. And you know what? It wasn't until just now that I realized what I've been so sad about. I miss my baby sister. The one I went out to play in a snow storm with last year. I had to beg her just to come out with me. The one I constructed a robot costume out of foil with for three hours on Halloween. I miss longboarding with her and going to the mall with her. I miss being able to talk to her all the time about anything and she wouldn't get mad. I miss her hugs and her showing me the next amazing art project she made. I miss laughing with her and singing loudly with her like idiots. I miss exchanging new bands we've found. I miss going to the movies or just watching movies at home with her. I miss hanging out in my room with her and just talking and playing music on our computers. I miss taking pictures with her. I miss reminiscing with her. But the person who lives in that house with my parents is not my sister. She's someone else I don't recognize. She's rude and hateful to me, and she won't let me be her big sister. She snaps at me and pushes me away. She doesn't need me, she doesn't love me, she doesn't care about me. And knowing that it might always be this way hurts more than she will ever know.

A Question of Life

Is there more to life than the ordinary goals that every person strives for? I can try as hard I can to make my path unique and interesting, but it always, in some way, shape, or form, ends up heading into that direction of sameness. School, college, love, graduate, career, marriage, kids . . . is that all that I can hope for that is offered to me? I'm in no way complaining about this odd ordeal, I suppose that I'm just thinking aloud. I'm just wondering if that is all that is available for a person. If it wasn't, I wouldn't know what other options would be possible. I suppose that this cliche way is the only path that anyone knows.

It Starts With Genetics

Bonds are first genetically created. Whether humans choose to continue those bonds, improve them, or focus on them is all chosen when we grow to a mental state when we are aware of this decision. The point at which this state is achieved can happen at anytime in any person, some achieve it sooner and in others it may take some time. Sounds easy, right? However, there is a phase which usually occurs within the teenage years of human's life that may contort the reality of this decision and render them blind to their actual desires, if not controlled properly. And if left uncontrolled, there isn't much that person can do when that time has gone and passed. And the ending result I feel is worse when they finally realize this. This is how I define bonds, and I only hope that the wretched phase that plays puppeteer with your body will soon pass and you will see the light as I finally have.

Proceed

In a way, I encourage you to damage whatever is left between us. Because I am seeing something that I have been longing for a long while. I am becoming closer to them. It's unfortunate that I have to kick one relationship to the curb to establish a better one with them, but so be it. It's nice. Soon I will be an apparition of a memory to this "home." And in a few months, so will you. From there, I can see what will happen, a lot of what happens to an ordinary family. Family ties broken and thrown to the wind. But what matters is that they might finally have a chance at happiness. And me? I know I will.

And Havoc Strikes Again

You are trite, abhorrent, minuet, horrid, insignificant, despicable, lousy, wretched, nauseating, a hindrance, worthless, mediocre, pitiful, useless, abominable, disgraceful, shameful, immoral, two-bit, spineless, and hateful. You're a waste of human space and your love is only for yourself. You have manipulated the people who brought you into this world enough that they now cater to your every whim while you give nothing in return. And even more importantly than all of these unspeakable things that form your entity: you are a coward. The greatest coward ever to exist because you cannot accept the truth that you perform dishonorable deeds and treat people like scum. A once energetic, out and about, caring, and popular person now makes a filthy nest of waste on a couch and brainlessly watches garbage on the television while She cleans the filth you leave behind whenever you feel it necesarry to move your worthless form and He throws green paper with faces at you whenever you demand it. You're a lowlife.