If Not Now

Sacrifice - the surrender or destruction of something prized or desirable for the sake of something considered as having a higher or more pressing claim.



Letting go was a sacrifice they were not yet ready to make. But if not now, when?

Gone are the days of the sacrificial lamb in turn for something of higher value to the spirit. This was a sacrifice of the flesh and blood of love. The burning of the whole beast, the bull, with all its bones and its makings of an animated body. A holocaust in the traditional sense. Holo - whole. Caust - burnt. It was a surrender, all for something of a higher rapturous value; though, what that was, they were unsure of.

Something worth the while of angels, perhaps. Something better, brighter, and swimming in the cessation of pain. Deconstructing the ties of love for the sake of sanity, peace; for self-worth, self-awareness and value. For the sensation of pale slate blue skies, and a golden, sacred ground to stand upon. But these were all just lullabies for the heart, easing the recognition of dark imps that travel the winding vessels within the brain's muscles. Destroy and sacrifice. Destroy to sacrifice. It was futile to have hope in all of this calamity. But if not now, when?

Mold

She couldn't tell if her throwing up was from the heartache or from her smoking 2 cigarettes in a row. Probably the latter, though, the heart remained in the same burdening state throughout the heaving, and only released itself slightly after the toilet flushed. The nausea was the same feeling as when you eat too much candy on Halloween. She had a weak stomach, regardless, always hacking after only one shot of tequila. She tried to control the desire to expel her dinner, only going to the bathroom to run some cool water over her skin, but upon stepping up to the sink, the corrosive smell of cat piss hit her nose. The rug on the floor was kicked up against the tub, and when she picked it up to confirm her suspicion (a bad idea), the smell of piss wafted into her face and throat, and suddenly she was face planting in the toilet. So perhaps her puking was from the cigarettes and the cat piss combined, but, nonetheless, the heartache of love loss remained in her top reasoning for the sickness.

The truth is impracticable, she thought. Or maybe he said it. She couldn't remember even though she was just outside smoking those cigarettes with him, explaining the truth -- 10 minutes ago. He had to dig it out of her, but she was able to do it. She crouched over the sink and washed her hands. Splashing cold water on her face trying to rub off the stale mascara. In the mirror's reflection she noticed more mold forming on the ceiling. Growing on top of the layer of paint that was used to disguise the other layer of mold underneath. Why would they try to cover it all up in the first place? Why bother?  As the tension in her nervous system continued to reach a balancing point, she joined the one that she betrayed back on the front porch. Lies, denial and fear will swell up in the body, poisoning it as much as any large amount of vodka. The corruption of the spirit, and its loss of integrity will cause the skin to bubble and dry, the energy to drain, and its own heart to harden. The spirit's heart hardens not against the outside world, but against the ego that had set such fire and disgrace upon it. She knew what she should have and should have not done. But what is there to do once she's already gone and done it? She could hear her father's voice cracking a joke, "You gone an' fucked up now there girl. You must be cruisin' for a bruisin'." Those words didn't really seem relevant, but it was the idea of laughter that she was after anyway.

She sat outside. A wooden cocktail table separated the two of them. He continued to smoke and make small philosophical talk of the dualism between mind and body and its counter arguments. His defense mechanism as an intellectual.  A brown moth flew down on the table and she stretched her finger for it to flutter up on. Perhaps just trying to prove to herself that there was at least one creature in the world that still respected her enough to be close to her -- to touch her. The moth vibrated its wings and she could feel the tiny tickling sensation on her right hand

"I think I need to go lay down inside. I feel sick," she said.

He took a drag of his cigarette. He told her not to bail on him now. He didn't want to be alone -- even more alone than he was. Then he poured himself another shot of whiskey. He was impassive, but it was a front, and they both knew it.

"Isn't it funny?" She said. "Even after all I've done to you, you still don't want to me to leave you out here alone. I would just be inside, you know? But even after all the pain that I personally cause, you don't want to be alone because I'm still better than nothing."

"Now you're exposed," he said. "Now you're more predictable. Now I can feel closer to you than I ever have before."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do that for you sooner."

She stared at the brown moth, still settling on her skin -- pale and dry and ashy, the moth and skin. She stretched her hand down to the edge of the table to transfer back to where she found it. "Go," she said, and after some hesitation, maybe from confusion, the moth fluttered off. Even after she yearned for the approval of the little creature, she became quite done with it rather quickly. She appreciated the abbreviated relationship from the moth. Though, the moth, too, was ready to go for it flew out of sight soon thereafter.

Noodles

She slipped. She fell. She cried from the pain of the slight break of skin on her knee. She ran inside. She sat at the table -- her legs dangling up above the floor. She ate a bowl of spaghetti and suddenly all that was left of the falling incident were marinara-stained cheeks, and a slight hum while she slurped up the last bit of noodle -- her legs now kicking back and forth from satisfaction. 

Nightmare

Many nights I have nightmares. Many nights I wake up alone in the bedroom, afraid to open my eyes, afraid to close my eyes. My only comfort is Myrtle Long-Cat laying on the pillow next to my face. Big orange and white ball of pet dander, dirt, dust, fleas and fur. Had she known my dream? Dreams. The most recent, but most recurring is the black shadow demon -- as I imagine it to be. It never comes to me in some abstract outlandish dream where I'm running through a maze of monsters, or slugging through hell.. It comes to me like I know reality, Always in my bed, silent, always while I'm sleeping, always the feeling of the present moment. I'm always aware, always chanting for God, and Angel Micheal to shield me. To lay a barrier of white light over me. "I am God's child" I say, "I am God's child. He is my power and my source." I tell it that I know it's there, "go away! you aren't welcome!" But it just sits on my chest, silent and strong until I realize it's all a dream and I wake up. These are the dreams. Then I rest in my bed without any sense of being surrounded by good, nor evil. Just me, feeling the drained energy of a warrior that has just battled something much larger and more mystical than himself. But this recent dream, this time, my voice failed me. The only weapon I had to protect myself was disabled.. I couldn't get the prayers out. Always fell short.. " Protect me Go--."  Gasping for air. Fighting to speak. Struggling to pray. I felt it slip in. I felt it feed off my curiosity, filling in the cracks of my psyche. Fortunately, and suddenly, it was pushed out as quickly as it entered and I wake up -- as I always do. Again, next to the cat. She seems to be doing alright. No strange glances across the room, no hissing, no running, just a strange stare at me saying, "why did you wake me up?"

I'm no longer afraid of it, of the thing that fights against me in my dreams. It has visited me since last summer. Each time becomes perpetually predictable. We fight, I struggle, I scream for the heavens, it ends. But, still,  I am afraid of one thing, and that is if it does win, if it does take me over, that I have no Godly idea that it did and I lose the battle without even knowing of my surrender.

Human Existence vs. The American Dream

And the children cried, "But we are the children of God!"


To which the men in black suits go, "But we are the ones to give you jobs."