Too Much Silence; Too Much Thinking

Too often we take for granted the little time we do have until someone close to us passes away, and within a split of a second, your heart drops, your stomach fills itself with knots, and the denial sits in.  The tone of the voice of your mother changes, and you know it isn’t good news she is trying to tell you. 

“I wanted to tell you before you saw it on facebook… we’ve had another death in the family…”  The name that follows sends pure shock through me.  I’m in utter disbelief and like an idiot I squeak out a, “What?!”  What else is there to say?  My mom continues on, explaining how he died, and it just makes me sick.

The tears fell.  I’m not sure if it was out of sadness, or just a natural reaction to hearing this news, that someone so young, is now gone and all I can think about is, “how much life can you live in just a few years past twenty?”  Is it even possible to experience all that you want to experience, is that time sufficient enough to leave this world with little to no regrets? 

Life ends in death.  But what about that time in between, does it account for nothing, is living even worth while?  Is spending 8 plus years of life dedicated to school and knowledge worth all the effort and money I am putting into it?  What if I never live long enough to even reach my goals and start my career path. 

What if he didn’t over dose?  What if he didn’t have a son that he was leaving behind, would this story be just as sad?  I just don’t know.  I do not hold the answers, and I don’t know who does.  I’m not religious.  In fact I am not even sure if “God” exists, and I put “God” in parenthesis for a reason.  There is several different versions and concepts of “God”, when you ask a question that is more vague than most would ever consider being vague.  Catholics, Christians, Methodist, Mormons, all of them see “God” differently, and within their organized religion, every single person within them, has different contortions of God.

Which leads me to this question, due to the events that have had happen today, is there really something after death?  Is it, what we, on earth call heaven?  Paradise?  The other side?  Or is it more  purgatory like, an in between state of gray and nothingness?  What IS after death?  Is living through hell down here on earth worth it, if all we have after death is nothingness? Is there a purpose to why I’m here, why you are, why WE are here?  Is there?  Can you answer my question without the form, “According to the Bible,” or “In the Bible it states…”  I don’t want to hear that answer or explanation.  I’m just not buying it.  Faith has five definition which are:

1.       *Confidence or trust in a person or thing.

2.       *Belief that is not based on proof.

3.       *Belief in God or in the Doctrines and teachings of religion

4.       *Belief in anything, as a code of ethics, standards of merit, etc.

5.       *A system of religious belief.

I’m going to start with the second most common definition, as it clearly states there is no proof to their belief in this wholly deity.  I am the type of person who research something, until I know all the facts and then form my opinion.  So, why would I believe in something that doesn’t have straight facts?  I need proof.  If you can prove your “God” to me, and please none of this bull shit, sacred and too wholly to be seen with earthly eyes.  If your “God”  wanted those to believe in him,  he would prove his existence and miracles.  Maybe I am too skeptical, but when I have read the entire Bible, King James version included, the Book of Mormon, the Kuran, and so on, and I can knit pick at every little fallacy and fault.  Also, this “God”  is straight up mean and is a hypocrite. 

I know this seems a little farfetched from the beginning of this blog, but as I sat in my living room in the loud roar of the silence, Dustin’s death was only one of many thoughts that encompassed me.  I kept asking why, and I will continue to ask why until I get an answer.  Why now? why him? Why so young?  So young, so young, too young….  All I can and could think about was how close in age I was to him, and how in four years or so, I still won’t be settled in a career, I will still be in school, my life won’t even hit it’s early starts quite yet, and then, to have it all stripped away, because this so called God wants me back?  Isn’t that a little selfish, God?  Huh?  What do you say to that you pretentious prick?  Maybe I should get on my knees, and pray, because otherwise you won’t give me the time of day, isn’t that right?

How can I believe in a god, that takes those few good people away, did he ever take a second to think that maybe these wonderful, full hearted people, need to be here on this shitty earth?  That these people can make this place better?  Heaven is a perfect place, right?  Doesn’t god want us to try to make this earthly place as heavenly as possible, so how can this be, when you, God, keep taking them away?  This is world is corrupt and filled with the most vile and evil people, yet you keep them alive?

Yes, I am angry at religion and God, or whatever the  hell he/she/It may or may not be.  I am angry at  fate, and the inevitable life always ending death.  I don’t want to turn to God, now nor do I ever want to seek out God’s help.  All he does is take and take and take.  He’s like that kid at the playground, kicking the younger kids sand castles over, pouring sand down there diapers, stealing the other kids toys.  That is what God is to me, we are the little helpless kids running around down on earth, and he is so high above us playing cruel little games with us, mind fucking us into his submission and spreading false hope.

Even with all this anger towards religion, church and god I’m leaving something vital out.  And the truth is: I’m hurting and breaking inside.  I’m sick and tired of those closest around me dying due to a selfish God who has already taken away several good people in my life.

I am not happy right now, I am saddened, and can’t stop thinking about the death of my cousin.  I just can’t.  The more I think about it the worse I feel.  Was it intentional?  Was it purely an accident?  Could he breathe?  Did he feel any pain?  How much did he struggle?  Can anyone answer my question to ease my mind? Can anyone?  How about you, God?  Can you answer my questions?  No?  That’s what I thought.

As of right now, I would rather risk my soul at the hands of the Devil, then to be ignored by this "glorious" God everyone raves about. 

Express the Inexpressible

Here we are, in complete solitude

It’s just us

I don’t want to divulge, and dive right in

I know you want me to take my time

But my anxiousness wants to rush

So I tense up, and I lose control of my hands

My wrists lowered

My fingertips,

Pressing gently,

Caressing…

I inhale deeply

Consuming all the oxygen

Feeling my lungs fill with much needed air

Your mouth belongs firmly against mine

My tongue reaches the tip of yours

There is no room to be meek or humble

This is my time to be proud-

To reek of Confidence

And how I love the taste,

The way it feels against my lips

My hands softly lay over your body

It feels so natural

It’s just you and I

You are a slave to my emotions

You express the inexpressible

With a darkened warm sound

Full and rich

Gently, I breathe life into you

And what follows next…

 Cannot be described with mere words

Just listen, that is all

Simply.

Just.

Listen.

And you’ll know,

Inanimate you are not, my love

I am what makes you speak

Music is what defines you

Saxophone: that is what you are

17

The dull throb sets in your head.  Your sciatic nerve once again is sending painful electrical shocks through your hip down to your pelvic bone. And as usual you ignore it; it’s a familiar pain, so you tolerate its existence.  Although you sigh to yourself, wishing you hadn’t forgotten your muscle relaxers back at home.  Now your left hand is beginning to ache, you are reminded of the broken blood vessel in your hand, and the bruised ring finger.  Yet, you continue to type.  You notice your eyes are sore, and you are fighting the fatigue you have been battling since the moment you woke up this morning. 

The television is on; it’s more of a background noise for you, barely there, under the radar.  Even the music blasting through your computer is fading.  Now all you hear is the bass line and the beat of the high hat and bass drum.  Every other instrument has faded.  A friend asks you a question, you quickly reply and resume to your writing.  You gently smile to yourself, neither of you are speaking, but it isn’t necessary, it isn’t awkward.  The lack of verbal word doesn’t bother either of you.   

Sucking in a breath, you scavenge your brain for what else there is to write about.  You know exactly what you want to talk about.  What you need to talk about, but you are afraid it will stir up more anger and have you break down into tears.  Your hands begin to tremble at the thought. 

But you remember.  Your chest tightens in response to that song, and you curse its cruel ironic timing.  You are forcing yourself to sit through it.  It was the song that was playing when you two had your first kiss.  His hands calloused from playing too many hours of guitar touched and circled your lips.  He lifted your chin, forcing you to stare into his honey eyes.   You were unsure and unknowing to such a feeling.  The erratic breaths filled the air, and you let it happen.

The orange glow of a gas ember eliminates his face, wrapped up in his arms.  There isn’t any other place you would rather be, but you are lying to yourself, because you know.  You’ve always known the outcome of this.

You find yourself pausing, and replaying that night over in your head.  You were fifteen and he was sixteen, almost seventeen.  Time held no meaning, and you know that night went too far for you, but not far enough for him.  You weren’t ready for that.  It would be almost a year and half later until you would cave in, and make that mistake.  You would regret that decision wishing it had been him, and not him.

Then things didn’t go as planned.  He liked your best friend, and you being who you are, wanted nothing but happiness for your friends.  So, you set the two up, pushing your own feelings aside.  Ignoring that they mattered, because in your mind, they never did and those closest to you, felt different. But you never listened.

You watched from the side lines for eight months, eight grueling months, watching her destroy and bring down your closest and best friend.  You let it happen, or at least this is what you had convinced yourself.  After he decided to end things, after having his heart torn to shreds, you were there piecing them back together but it was like he never made that promise to you.  It was as if that night never happened.  You find yourself aching for more, but never verbalizing it.

This is where your usual act came into play, mask yourself with a smile and a witty remark.  Never expose the truth, even if it was at your own expense. Then, when you thought things could have been more than what they were he tells you he is dropping out of high school and is moving.  Someone you had grown up with, and have become so attached to would soon be out of your grasp.  Text messages, emails and phone calls were not ever going to be enough for you and they wouldn’t be. 

Two years pass, and you haven’t heard from him in over six months, the last you heard was he had just recently got out of rehab, and you have tried countless times to contact him, but no reply.  Friends, family, tell you he isn’t worth it anymore, you refuse to believe them, what did they know?  Did they understand what YOU felt for him?  No, they didn’t and they still don’t.

You start college, and he appears again.  It’s like he had never left.  Soon, you are texting him daily, and wasting your minutes talking to him on the phone.  How you have missed the raspy tone of his voice.  It’s comfort, a safe zone, home.  You spend the next few weeks reminiscing in the past seventeen years.  From the days of innocence, to the day all innocence had been tainted by a crimson fate.  You’re laughing, crying, singing all those nineties pop music hits along with the bands he introduced you to.  It’s great.  It’s like old times.  How wrong you would be about this false hope. 

Winter break, you are home for three weeks, and when you opened up the door to see him on your doorstep you couldn’t help but smile.  Throwing your arms around his neck, you have forgotten how tall he is.  You also notice that this once lanky kid isn’t so lanky anymore.  His dark hair has become longer, not what you are used to, but you like it.  Then you meet his eyes, those honey gold eyes, and they haven’t changed.  It was a deceptive illusion you would so easily fall into.

Three weeks pass by so quickly, and two days before you would head back, the two of you are quietly lying on your bed listening to his favorite jazz CD.  He hums the tune in your ear.  Then the humming stopped, and your eyelids perk up to look at him, questioning why he had stopped.  He spoke, soft and low.

“Can I ask you a question?” He speaks, patiently waiting for permission, I nod.

“Of course.”  At this point he can’t hide his smile, and thus makes me smile.

“Can we give us a try?” 

“You mean, date?” 

“Yeah, maybe more.” 

You find yourself in a state of bliss, regardless of what has happened in the past three weeks.  For the briefest moment you are legitimately happy. You return back to school, keeping things hush, it’s too soon, you tell yourself, to let others know.  Probably the best decision you have made in almost over a month. 

Monday arrives, and things fall apart, not for you, but those around you.  The ones you care for.  You finished off that vodka bottle, when you know you shouldn’t have.  Those two people surrounding you couldn’t have prevented you anyway.  You are furious.  Irate and you say a four letter word that you find absolutely repulsive.  Anger doesn’t seem to fit your mood anymore.

Tuesday arrives, and things are kind of better, then you get that text, that one text that ripped your heart out completely. And the words replay over and over and over.  “I thought we were just fuck buddies.”  Ouch.  In that moment you didn’t allow yourself to feel sad or heart broken.  You just find yourself continuing to be angry.  It seems like it was the best thing to do.  Being angry meant you wouldn’t have to feel the hurt of betrayal and the sting of a heartbreak, being pissed was less painful.  Anger was something you could easily endure.

You didn’t finish the conversation that night, and worry about a phone call the next day that you had to make.  You love him, you care for him, this hasn’t stopped, but fighting for him, holding onto him seemed detrimental to your health.  You had to do it.

Moments before you make that phone call, your body temperature lowers, your heart rate increases, dread tears through you, a panic attack is setting in motion.  But you prevent that from happening and make the call.

You ended it.

All he says is okay.

Now, how do you move on?

Seventeen years.  How do you move on from seventeen years, please, tell me how?

Here I am now and I still don’t know.  I’m hurting, and breaking, but I ignore it.  Just like the dull throb in my head and the sciatic nerve sending electric shocks through my hip.  Soon, the pain will become familiar and I will learn to tolerate its existence. 

Step one:

Goodbye.