He could have made the grade.
He would have been ideal.
I let my feelings get away.
I left my soul to feel.

For feeling, was a schism.
Each moment was a chance.
Each thoughtless intuition.
Was mindless happenstance.

I wrung my hands over the water.
I placed my heart in new compartments.
I watched the tears fall on the paper.
I gave him time for sentiment.

For losing, was a poison.
Each thorn a passing glance.
Each thought that was never spoken.
Was doomed to true romance.

He should have made it fade.
He could have been ideal.
I let my mind degrade.
I left my soul to feel.

I burned up bits of letters.
I threw up shards of glass.
I patched the wounds much better.
I let the feelings pass.

For time was just a vessel.
Each lapse, a quickened song.
Each tampering, each meddle.
Was too far, and too far gone.

He wonders why I am silent.
He paces in his mind.
My heart knows what my choice meant.
It has hardened over time.

My lover is the loft apartment.
I am the basement floor.
So high on awful discontent.
I can't do this anymore.

I crawled out of the darkness.
I splayed myself across the floor.
I closed my eyes to the abyss.
I will not live here any more.

-

There's so much more I could say, but this is all that came today.

These thoughts and words have been coming for the last year, and I have neglected to acknowledge them or allow myself to write about them. I rationalize my procrastination with work, extracurricular 'fun', relationships, moving, sleep, gym, etc.. None of which really hold any weight to the importance of what I have been feeling and thinking. In my thoughts. By myself. Without influence from any one or any kind of substance. I have not planned how I would write about these things, but I am going to attempt it in the best way that I can. Free- form. No rules. Just words. I also had not planned to make it a public forum for the eyes of the world to possibly find, but here I am. And here you might be. So if there is anything to gain from writing this other than lifting a heavy weight on my heart.. I hope that there is a message in here that can assist and help who ever finds it and interprets what I say. I am allowing myself to be open to whatever thoughts and feelings come, and this is how it goes:


I attempted to run away from home when I was nine years old. Looking back on it now, I know that I was not in my right mind and clearly was not good at planning such a task. I walked out of the apartment I lived in with my mother and her new husband in pajamas and slippers. I decided that evening when I went into my room that I wanted to run away and live with my grandmother in Massachusetts. I knew nothing about her except small pieces of information that I gathered over time. She abandoned my mother and my uncles when they were very small, but for some reason, I thought that I would be an exception to the rule and she would know who I was and welcome me into her home and her life without hesitation. I walked in the darkness of the neighborhood for at least an hour, hiding from cars that went by and after a couple miles a police officer picked me up and took me home. I reference this story, because in the last year my grandmother died, alone. There is a part of me that believes she killed herself, whether it was instantly or it was a slow process. I know in my heart that she was alone and she was sad and it was a result of the mistakes that she made in life.. I don't mean this to sound cold or disconnected. I loved her. And in my later years, I grew to know her in person, and I had an understanding of why she was who she was. I would spend sundays with her, color her hair, talk to her about my life and my music. I always felt like something in her was missing though, and until she died I could never really see what that was. When I got the call from my mother about her death all I could think was, "I'm sorry you were alone." I cried. I am still grieving to some extent. Reflecting on my time with her has helped. There were times though- when I avoided her and was afraid to see her. She drank a lot, and only had spare moments of clarity within those times. My grandmother was sassy and stubborn, but if she liked you she would do her best to make you smile. I wish more people had her spirit, but I also wish that she wasn't a victim of alcoholism and abuse. There was so much potential within her as a person. It was one of those things you could always see in someone's eyes, but they couldn't see it when they looked in the mirror..

-------

My father kidnapped me when I was young from a visit during a custody dispute with my mother. I can tell you things that I remember during this time. In fact, the images are crystal clear and they are some of the only memories I have of my father smiling. We drove through the desert in the hot sun, and he would tell me to duck down whenever a police car drove past us on the freeway. There was a moment where we had to stop for gas and food, and I told the man behind the counter,"That's my daddy and he kidnapped me!" I didn't say it in a way that was accusatory, but I thought that it was a game and we were having fun. My father was charming. He could get away with murder, and I'm pretty sure he did at one point in the 1970's, but I don't know the full story, and I don't care to know. While my father and I were on the road, I have no idea what was happening back home with my mom. I can't really even remember if I missed her or if I was aware of the fact that what was happening to me was wrong. I do know that shortly after I was returned, I was in foster care. I was hard to handle. I would scream every night. I would cry. I would bite. I was traumatized by my experiences before and after at a very early age. I do not blame anyone for my life or the path I am on. I know that my soul chose to be here at this time and to experience these lessons and stepping stones. 
As for my father... He was ejected from my life due to his reckless behavior. My mother had sole custody of me, and we lived a gypsy lifestyle. Traveling all over. Sometimes living in a van, motels, the ywca, with boyfriends of hers. It was new all the time, and we were a team. I still don't remember when I forgot about my father, but I never thought about him until I was nine years old. The same year that I tried to run away to my grandmother. A phone call came to our apartment one day, and from the tone of my mother's voice it was serious. We sat down to have dinner, and that was when she told me that my father had a heart attack. I was stoic. Pensive. Frozen. Who was my father? Only recently at that time did I wonder, because I was constantly being called a faggot for not having a dad. I was bullied because my dad didn't exist and we didn't play sports. So when I was sitting there, and hearing those words about a man who was a work of fiction to me at the time. I cried. It was all of the reality of my life cascading back onto me and reminding me of my past. 
The journey to know my father and get close to him was difficult. I was in constant opposition of my parents. They could not agree on anything, because they could not agree on what was best for me. This of course is my own interpretation, and I'm sure they would tell you differently if they could. My father and I began talking on the phone, and he would send me letters and VHS tapes in the mail. He made a lot of promises and showed me a very grandiose life that he was living in Florida. My father painted a very pretty picture about living with him and his wife in their big house near the ocean with horses and boats and his karate school. It wasn't until I was sixteen that I finally had the chance to see him in person again. Then again when I was nineteen. Our letters were very frequent, and lengthy. I still have all of them in my possession. His penmanship was impeccable, and his way with words always seemed to make me feel like I was wrong, even if there were a million facts showing he was at fault. My father abused the words "I love you". I think he thought it was a band-aid for years of neglect and abuse. "I love you" became the bane of my existence. My father didn't even spell my name right half the time. He spelled it Z-A-C-K. I HATED IT. I still hate being called Zach, Zachary, and Zachy. If you loved me, why didn't you respect the name you gave me?
Shortly after my father's heart attack when I was nine, he was placed in the custody of Florida Corrections and admitted as a criminal. His battle with the judicial system lasted my whole life from that point. I always knew that he would die alone, but I held out hope he would never die in prison. Several letters came from my father in the last two years. I ignored them. I decided to stop writing him, because I thought he was selfish. Deep down I wanted so desperately to reach out to him and just shake him and say,"You don't have to pretend you're perfect. I just want to love you for who you are." I was with my boyfriend John during this time, and he heard so many stories and he was afraid of my father. He didn't want him to have our address, because my father had this crazy ability to escape and go into hiding. Yes, my dad was hunted down by the FBI when he ditched parole and went AWOL. It was a horrible experience for my family, and we constantly felt harassed.
I'm not writing about my father to list his criminal history though. I am writing about him, because he died in January of 2014. I never had the opportunity to see him one last time. I never got the chance to hear his voice on the phone. I never got to forgive him. I never allowed myself to really love him, because I was afraid he would lie and make promises that he couldn't keep. It's amazing how the way someone loves you can affect the way you think you should love other people.

 Now that I am older, and I am grieving his death. I have looked inward to find answers. There have been none. So when my father died, in that time I latched onto my ex. It was a selfish move, and I regret it, but I am learning to let it go. I spent a couple weeks away from work, and I parked myself on the couch and just cried. I then moved back in with my ex, and we stayed in relationship limbo for another six months. We amicably ended things, moved into our own respective spaces, and then I decided to quit my job and come to LA. I had nothing left. All of my family was scattered and all of my friends were getting pregnant, died, or had gotten married to their partner or their career.


That's the funny part about death too though.
It makes you realize who you are, because you know what you're losing, and all you have left in your hands.. I realized that I wanted to be free, and I was not happy with the life I had made for myself.

When I looked at the rubble of what happened in my life this past year I learned to acknowledge two very simple things:

1. Love is all around you.
2. Forgiveness is not weakness.

I also observed how terribly afraid I have been to really love and be loved by any one. 
John and I ended our relationship amicably, and we also ended our friendship and communication in December. That was four years of learning and growing alongside another person... 
My biggest challenge was to learn how to feel everything I was experiencing without editing it. I had this horrible habit of analyzing my thoughts and feelings and self medicating so that I could have control. I would find myself resenting decisions I had made, because I knew deep down I didn't want it. I stopped listening to my heart and allowed myself to be wrapped up in a symbiotic and selfish relationship. We were merely getting high on each other and how we felt while we were together. It's that weird intoxicating part about love that people don't see all the time. To the outside everyone says,"Oh wow, they are so happy together, look at them." What is really happening is that one person is sacrificing passions and dreams to substitute it with making the other content.
Love is not meant to be selfish. Ever.

After I was single, I learned that compassion was the most important thing I needed to embrace.
Compassion made me open up myself to possibility. Compassion allowed me to let go of my guilt and it allowed me to forgive. In doing this, I happily quit living my life the way I was. I went back to center, and found the happiness within myself that I always knew existed. It has been exciting and I can't believe how simple it was once I let it happen.

My father had moments of it. Self love and appreciation, but he allowed it to become warped and twisted. Manipulating those around him for his own selfish needs.. I was always so afraid that I would become him, but now that he's gone and I see the life I have begun, I am light years away from his karma, and I do not accept it into my own path. I love my father for showing me who I should not become. I love him for being absent, because if he wasn't- I would not be who I am today.

The same goes for my grandmother. I love her for her crazy. I love her for being indifferent toward the struggles of her children and grandchildren, because if she had not been who she was- I would not be me.

We all make choices.
We all decide to find the love around us and forgive.

Unfortunately, we all make bad decisions and mistakes too.
Hindsight can be such a blessing, but the irony of it can be maddening. 

I am trying to find a balance.

I am still growing and learning, and in fact I am still living in fear most of the time.
I know that what I feel is very intense and true. I know that there is nothing standing in my way any more except myself and my own mind. Which is why I am sitting here writing. I need to get it out. I need to let it go. I need to forgive myself for thinking that I do not deserve more.

I cannot live in denial about who I am. Or be ashamed for the mistakes that my father or my grandmother might have made. I will not be. I will stand up and say that I love them for existing and I am happy that I was able to appreciate them, regardless of the pain.

So, in closing.

I would like to say I am sorry if there has been any one in my life who I closed my heart to. I allowed a lot of loss and regret to subdue me. I allowed failed relationships and failed friendships to tarnish my perception of truth.

Perhaps it wasn't the right time, or maybe I was allowing my own thoughts to pull me away.

I want to be open to love.

I want to be compassionate and kind.

I want to forgive and keep moving forward.

I want to make people smile.

Laugh.

So please, be patient with me.

I will forever be a student of the world, but I want to be the master of my own heart and spirit.

I love you.

-z-

clay

I'm not sure when it really happened.
This idea...

It appeared, and I grabbed it and I decided to just sit with it for a while.

In my hands it just looked like a ball of clay and nothing further.

When I started to sing or think of new dance ideas, the look of it changed.

It was exciting.
At times, it was intoxicating.

How could I alter this experience and transform it so that it would flow into the next?

When I was afraid- it would shrivel up like a raisin.

It would grow cold, damp, and crumble. 

I tried to patch it up and put it back together with pretty words and phrases.

Nothing really worked.

Then I knew.

I knew that this idea...

The thing I had inside of me would never grow without truth, compassion, and real love.

It would never evolve or change without a little mystery. Intrigue. 

This thing would only stay in the form it was if I relied on it to be more than what it started as.

I had to create a new portrait.
I had to give it a new voice.
I had to take the first step into the light.

Then I knew.
But sometimes, I feel like I know and learn things too late.

This thing has come and gone in many life times.
It has been many muses.

Who passed it to me and expected me to create anything out of it?

I can tell right now that all I see is the ball of clay with a few fingerprints in it.

I have not even scratched the surface.

What is this thing?

What do I do with it?

What am I supposed to feel about it?

Should I feel anything at all?

this thing...

It's just... there.

-

BOBBI BOUGHT A GUN

Bobbi heaved a sigh as she eyed his body slumped on the floor. Her hand clasped over her mouth to muffle any sound, but she pulled her hand away when she realized no one would hear her breathing. The other hand held the gun with the two fingers that were not broken. How she managed to pull the trigger was beyond her recollection since the .45 was dangling from her index and middle fingers. She trembled as she bent forward to put the weapon near her feet. Meticulously wiping it with the rags in her pocket and then making sure to keep her gloves on while she rubbed the gun residue onto his palms. His arms were heavy and clumsy to maneuver, but she was able to pull and turn his body in a way that made him look as if he were sleeping. In that moment Bobbi convinced herself that if she walked into the room and saw his body, it would look like he had been drinking again and just fell asleep that way. Just like every other night he stumbled into their hotel and collapsed into the abyss of his indulgence. It was only until the blood began to pool under his torso, then she started to panic. 

Of all the nightmares and visions you could pull from dreams, Bobbi saw the horror of bright red liquid spreading into stark white carpet. A crimson rorschach. Bloody tendrils that were lingering and creeping toward her shoes as she stood over his body. Perhaps it was an optical illusion or her mind was matrixing the puddle, but it appeared to form a face. The face of a devil that was staring right into her. "The Devil made me do it. The Devil made me do all of it. I am cursed by my own ignorance of what is pure and righteous! I am a sinner. I have sinned! Oh Jesus, what can I do?!" Her penance went unheard, and the demonic red face continued to bloom under the dead body in front of her. The warmth of the blood crept up over her shoes and in between her toes. Bobbi was in awe of how much blood one body could release. So much of it pooling around him, and seeping into the carpet, but overflowing so high it went into her open-toed heel. 

"Why didn't the liver cancer take you out first? Why did you have to make me do this to you? Huh?" Bobbi nudged his leg with her foot, expecting either the dead man or the bloody devil forming beneath him to answer. An answer from either would have scared her shitless, but standing there, alone, with three broken fingers and a dead body wasn't any fun either. The sound of a key being put into the deadbolt alarmed her and she froze. The silence was so distinct that she could hear the fabric of her raincoat rubbing against her shirt as she inhaled a short breath. A door opened and shut while muffled voices were giggling and talking loudly. It was coming from the room next door. The blond girl and her boyfriend that said hello to Bobbi when she first arrived into town. She had searching eyes that made Bobbi feel like she had already done something wrong. As if the young blond girl knew exactly what was in Bobbi's purse, and what use she had for it that evening back at the hotel. Knowing now that all was clear, and no one was barging into her room, Bobbi quickly began collecting evidence that could be used against her. She still made she her hair was kept wrapped up away from her face in the scarf, and her gloves would remain on until she could burn them. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

To a Funeral

The train car was empty for most of the trip to Moncton. I sat with my face against the window, watching my hot breath create a patch of steam contrasting the bitter cold outside. An automated voice would wake me in increments of time. Reminding me that a machine I obsessed over as a child was on two sets of steel rails pulling my journey forward. I would catch glimpses of my reflection against the dark outside and my eyes looked complacent. This was all too familiar, but the chapter it was happening in felt devoid of reality. It felt sullen and nostalgic like Joni Mitchell singing about it being in her blood like holy wine. I could hear the guitar, and I could hear the words in my mind. This is why I was on the train, and this was why I was compelled to a place I never knew in this life. Compelled to bring a satchel, my guitar, and some cash if I should need it.

My heart was aching as I scanned the car and my surroundings. The light that came from my chest felt dimmed. The aching grew into a chill that spread from the center of my body, over my shoulders, and down my back. Taking deep breaths and reminding myself that I chose to be here, and I chose to do it alone was all I could muster. Slowly, Taking deep breaths and looking at the back of the woman’s head on the opposite end of the train. Short silver curls, resting on top of pale white skin. Nestled on a thin neck, wrapped in a scarf and wool coat. Just as many before her, she rode the train like a sentinel, looking forward and never meeting my gaze. I returned to my breathing exercises. Gently, conjuring happy trees and magical places in my consciousness. Was I having a panic attack, or was it the claustrophobic air in the train finally doing me in? How could I feel trapped in here? Physically, there were only two whole bodies in this train car, including myself. Gradually, inhaling and exhaling I began to find a steady calm, and I knew I could embrace slumber.

Dusk had settled a cool blanket upon the earth, and I could sense it all around me. My eyes were heavy as I wedged my face between the seat cushion and the glass. The humming of the engine, and the constant vibration of the locomotive hushed me to sleep. Little movies and images began to play on the back of my eyelids. There were flashes of faces, geometric silhouettes, and black puffs of smoke. There were startling and sudden changes in mood. Accompanied by rivers of blood with bones cascading from a mountain, and the sound of people weeping. My attempts to close my eyes, look away, find my body, and regain some semblance of reality were growing harder to accomplish. That was when I hit my face against the glass and was jolted awake by the hand on my shoulder. Or did the hand hit my face and the vulgar sounds in my ears follow? There was a declaration being made, forcibly waking me like a splash of frigid water. Her mouth was moving, and it finally registered that she was screaming,” FIRE!”

With her hand on my shoulder, and her dead eyes looking into mine, the chill I had before I fell asleep returned. Dread and fear took hold of me, and all I could do was stare blankly into her mouth and watch her lips move, and bits of spittle land on her chin as she shook me and kept declaring,” FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” Her hand released from me, and she quickly turned around and pointed a bony finger to the end of the car. My eyes followed her every move as if in slow motion. I traced my vision along her shoulder, over her wool collar, down her knitted scarf, past her elbow, to her hand, and then past her pointing index finger.

At the end of the car was a flashing red light above a sign that read, “DO NOT PULL THE EMERGENCY CORD. NOTIFY TRAIN CREW IMMEDIATELY. IF POSSIBLE, MOVE TO ANOTHER CAR THROUGH INTERIOR DOORS. REMAIN INSIDE- TRACKS ARE ELECTRIFIED. FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS FROM TRAIN CREW AND EMERGENCY WORKERS.” What the hell happened? How long had I been sleeping? The woman was rigid as she focused her attention on the light and the flashing sign. Ambivalent, I looked back and forth between her and the alarm quite a few times before I could feel my legs and stand. The train appeared to still be in motion, and I held onto the seat as I walked out into the aisle with the panicked old woman. I placed my hands very softly on her shoulders and she jumped, but she looked into my eyes and smiled. I asked her,” would you like to sit down while I try to see what is going on?” If she spoke English, or spoke at all I could not be certain. Her smile just grew into a Cheshire grin, and she complied with my body language.  As she sat she adjusted the small wrinkles in her coat, and tied her scarf into a tighter knot. Her gaze never met mine again, because she closed her eyes, and leaned back into the seat as I walked away from her. I looked back at the alarm and took one step toward it when a muffled pop caused me to turn around. I was only three feet or so from the door to the car that had been behind me on this trip. However, I could not see the interior lights through the door window. At this moment, I felt the goose bumps raise so high off my skin it felt like tiny needles all over my body.

What did I just see through the door? I was trying to ignore the strange sensations that were going through my body so I could regain my composure and rationalize what I had just witnessed. I took a deep breath, and replayed the moment as I looked through the window. I saw three sparks of light encased by opaque darkness. Then a flash of bright fire, and what appeared to be a rolling piece of metal. It was rolling and bouncing, and veering to one side of my sight and disappeared into the void. Did I see human faces or just hear screams? That was when I realized the sleeper car behind us had detached from the tracks and flipped over and over again. The flashes of light and color were the bodies and the luggage and debris in Technicolor as the fire consumed them. That was the muffled pop of the cable release, and the sparks of the chains and wheels deploying. The grating metal and twisting frame exploded onto the tracks, and into the tundra we were barreling through.

My heart was aching again. My heart was thumping in my ears and I could no longer hear the alarm, and I could not keep my eyes open. I felt my body sway and dip, and I collapsed to my knees and landed on all fours trying to collect myself. I began to focus on my breathing, and I allowed myself to melt into the floor. Rolling onto my back, I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling of the train car. My breathing began to slow, but my heart was still racing from the adrenalin. Staring at the ceiling, I sat up, and looked right at the alarm on the wall in front of me. Reaching for the seats nearby, pulling my body onto my feet, and wobbling back onto my legs. I began to walk forward while looking down at my boots and seeing where they had been scuffed over time. It drummed up memories of my grandfather and where he walked in them. How many steps did he take in them, and where did they lead him on his path in life? Then I remembered that I was not alone, and I was in the car with the old woman.

 My eyes darted ahead to where I had left her, but she was gone. Perhaps she was lying down across the seats? I tripped and folded forward, sprawling out in the aisle. When I landed, my head was in line with where she had been sitting. Her coat was neatly folded under her scarf, and her shoes were in the seat next to it. I touched them to make sure what I was witnessing was real, and indeed it was. Her clothes were intact, but her body was missing. The aching and the cold began to creep over me again, and I could not find comfort in taking deep breaths. I could not find solace in going to my happy place. A train full of people behind me was erased from existence, and a woman in my car had vanished into thin air. I moved her belongings over to the window seat, and I sat down where she had been.

Looking around the car, trying to gain perspective into where she could have gone. I sat there in a stupor. Completely baffled at the series of events that had unfolded out of my control. This trip was supposed to help me find myself. I was only here because going by myself seemed like the best option. As I mulled through the thoughts that had come before I departed, I began to feel a deep sense of regret and absolute terror overtake me. My brain was folding into itself and all of my yogic ideologies were failing me. The sheer trauma of what was occurring left me incapable of finding my thoughts, and rationalizing what I should do next. So, I sat there, and I cried. I fucking cried until I asked myself out loud,” What the hell are you sitting here for? You need to get the hell out of here before something else happens!” It was in that moment that I knew I had lost my mind, but I had regained my survivalist defense. I left the seat, and the old woman’s belongings, and I walked toward the flashing alarm.

Apprehensively, I took meager steps toward it. The fear was suffocating me, and I was waiting for another explosion, or another crazy person to scream fire and appear from nowhere. The thought also crossed my mind that perhaps as I moved up the train car, that somewhere, I would see the old woman. I would see her naked and dead in between the seats. She would still have her eyes open with a look of terror frozen on her face. I closed my eyes and shook this image from my mind. I shook it quite aggressively, and allowed my body to carry me forward toward the alarm that was flashing. The audible sound that it made had stopped somewhere in between the explosion and the old woman’s disappearance. Now it was just an obstinate red beacon, bathing me in its light. I was an arm’s length away from the door when I felt prickling hot breath behind my right ear. The lights went out, and the train slammed to a stop.

The sudden change in motion caused me to fly forward at an unforgiving speed. I hit my shoulder and the side of my face on the metal cabin wall. A warmth flowed down my face, and I knew I was bleeding from the impact. I could only embrace the next few moments that happened since I had no control of my body or my conscious mind. The red spinning light of the alarm was going in several directions, but it appeared to be up, then down, and then it spun backward and grew brighter. I saw other flashes of things like metal, glass, and my boots over my head, and my hands hitting my face, and then my body slamming into a train seat. Then I was above everything, and then I was next to the window. The car was rolling, and I was a ragdoll suspended in time. There was a loud crack, and I felt a pinch in my chest close to my heart. My ribs were clawing at my lungs, and cutting up my insides. I felt the cold chill I had before, along with warmth inside my body that I had not experienced. I was internally bleeding, and being thrown around the cabin of locomotive.

It all stopped, and I wheezed in the darkness of this experience. I could feel my lungs filling up with fluid, as I lay arched over the back of a bench. The train was upright, but it was no longer moving. Moonlight spilled into the car, and I could hear the cold biting wind from the Appalachians. My body was cold, but my blood was warm as it pooled onto my face, and out of my flesh. I was dying. I was dying alone in a train that was supposed to be taking me to a funeral. One of my eyes was swollen shut, but I could still see out of the other. I looked all around me, trying to get my bearings. I could tell that my body was folded awkwardly across the bench. My chin was in my chest, and my legs were out of my line of sight. Perhaps my back was broken, and I was paralyzed. All I felt was cold when I tried to move my toes inside of my grandfather’s boots. The wheezing of my breath began to slow, and I could feel the last bits of my life leaving my body.

Then I saw her face. I was sure I saw it in my mind first, but then I saw it with the one good eye I still had left to use. The old woman… She was floating over me, or appeared to be. She was just smiling, and looking at me with her wisps of curly white hair and blank expression. I was relieved, but internally terrified of her as her face slowly crept closer to mine. Her smile never dissipated, and her eyes grew softer as she came nearer to me. I felt pins and needles all through my body, and then I felt popping and more warmth spread across my chest. I was no longer breathing physical air. My lungs had collapsed, and I was incapable of taking the vital oxygen I needed. The old woman was above me, and she put her cheek against my face. My heart grew cold, and my mind raced to moments of my life with my grandmother. If I could have smiled I would have, but my face was pallid and frozen. It was in this lapse of time that I knew I was to meet my end, and the old woman was the comfort of death carrying me away.

Death moved her face over my lips and drew in a deep breath. The cold went away, and all of the memories faded with it. This is the bliss of atonement. There were no broken bones and swollen eyes. I could not feel the terror or the pain from what I had experienced any more. As she took in more air over my mouth, I felt myself being released from the shell my spirit was housed in. Weightless. Formless. Ethereal. I could still feel my heart, but could find no physical trace of it. My conscious mind was alert and expanding, but there was no skull for it to be encased in. I was evolving into the beyond, and the eyes of death said without words,” This is why you are here.”

Snapping awake to the electronic voice proclaiming, “You have arrived in Moncton” I sleepily rubbed my eyes and looked over to the empty seat next to me. In it, folded neatly was the knitted scarf of the old woman. My eyes looked forward to her seat, but she was not there. Reaching over, I touched the fibers, and ran my fingers over it and smiled. I collected my belongings around me, and waiting outside the train for my luggage with the other passengers. I remembered some of their faces, but realized it was odd to recognize them, because I had never actually looked at them while I was awake. My thoughts shifted to the journey I still had ahead of me. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and acknowledged the experience in my heart. I had been through hell and back. I wasn’t going to let a bad dream ruin my trip. Even if I was going to a funeral. At least it was not my own…This is why you are all here.

To live.

To Love Me

If I found someone who loved me.

I'd make them love me better.

They'd tell of past loved ones.

"I wish you would have met her."



If I found someone who needed me.

They wouldn't need me all the time.

For absence makes the heart grow fond.

But, co-dependence goes over the line.



If I found someone who respected me.

My name would be a household item.

They'd shun people for badmouthing me.

In fact, we both wouldn't like them.



If I found someone who loved me.

If I found someone who needed me.

If I found someone who respected me.

Then I wouldn't know what I need now.



-z-

(I value the journey I have gone through, and I would never change a thing)