Nothing happens

Nothing happens on a calm day like today.//Nothing can happen, when the day is just dead.//What’s the impulse to be felt, if today’s end has started again?

It’s so quiet out here, inside today’s dream.//So quiet, indeed, I hear my thoughts scream.

And I can hear myself going insane.//Paralyzed in a way I’ve never felt.//There’s just too much time to spend with myself.//On a calm day like today.

For inside there’s a spiral full of feelings and answers.//Though the questions to ask are a different matter.//Because they just don’t exist, and if they do, I don’t have’em.

And that’s why nothing can happen on a day like today.//On a calm day full of pity and dread.

Even clouds and the sun have felt the depression of today.//The sorrow and heaviness that lingers in the air.//So they disappeared behind a sea of mist, waiting for a new day.//And all that’s left is fog and despair.

Yet the distance yonder is sprinkled with song.//Whistles and twitters and croaks all adorn.//A calm and dreadful day with no love.//A day that perpetually ends and gives nothing more.

The orchestra defies the sky’s petulance, blasting from all corners of The Dome.//And with sounds unimaginable, creatures fill the sky’s deathly void.

Then powerful winds make the plants cringe, and though I fear it, the orchestra doesn’t flinch.//Or waiver.//Or give into the rotten stench.//Of a day like today.

But they’re the only ones that survive a calm day like today.//A day full of fog and the promise of rain.

Then a reflection of a beast behind and in front and within me appears in a single stroke.//Crying for help inside a mirror I’ve never known.//It stares back at me, unflinching, and for dear life it begs.//Yet I’m helpless in my paralysis and I know we’ll never see each other again.//So I apologize with my eyes and pray for the rain.//To flood this place while we keep at bay.//But in the time it takes me to blink, the reflection’s gone.//The moment has passed.//The beast is no more.

And that’s all that happens on a calm day like today.//On a day full of fear and loss and songs of dismay.

Nothing else happens sitting here, mourning the day’s perpetual end.//Nothing happens because the mind has bent.//It has become warped by the promise of pain.//Of a pain ushered by today’s disdain.


My brother and I were standing in some unnamed beach, looking far into the horizon, talking about something I can’t fully remember now, though eventually we got to the topic of suicide. The beach was only “technically” a beach – that is, it was just a part of the ocean that reached out onto some shore full of brown sand, but the currents were so wild and strong, like the Atlantic ocean, that no one dared swim. In fact, the entire beach was desolate: not a soul around, though the sun was shining strong.

As we got deeper into the conversation of suicide, we both lifted our eyes from the horizon and placed them upon a huge brown rock covered in moss and algae that was coming out of the turbulent waters like an iceberg. Our conversation maintained the theme, though at times we talked about suicide and at others simply about death. Then, at some point, as the waves were getting angrier and bigger, I said to him: “watch out, man….we can’t get in the water…unless we want to die.” I then remember feeling some kind of morbid desire to jump in precisely to see if I’d die. I started holding on to the algae in the rock with one hand while dipping my feet in the water, but the current was so strong — driven by some kind of hurricane or cyclone under the water — that it nearly sucked me in, so I got scared and quickly pulled myself back up onto the brown sand. But then my brother said something about killing himself, recalling our talk of suicide, and he said it completely nonchalantly; almost as matter of fact. That’s when he jumped in.

I remember yelling hysterically at him not to do it, though it was obviously too late…as soon as his feet touched the water, he was sucked in underneath that big rock as if he had gone inside a blender running full speed. He just disappeared. Waves started getting even bigger, crushing all around me, sounding like thunder and splashing violently against the rock.

Without hesitation, I jumped in the water, though I held dearly to the algae and moss that was growing on the rock. I dipped my head quickly underneath the water to see if I saw him, and indeed I could see him just underneath the rock, caught on something while being tumbled around by the waves as if inside a washing machine. He was unconscious. As I tried pulling him out, I nearly lost my grip on the rock and nearly drowned, too. But eventually I pulled him out.

Then I just remember running with his unconscious, pale and cold body in my arms through the beach toward some huge mountain in the distance. As I ran, I was screaming “help!! help me!! help, please!!!” with utter desperation and fear in my trembling voice. Then I saw some people dressed in black/blue clothes come down from the mountain and heading towards us. I think they might have been paramedics, because when they reached us, one of them took my brother from me,  placed him on the ground and started performing CPR. His hands pushed frantically down on my brother’s chest, trying to pump his heart back alive. But he wouldn’t wake up. I stood there trembling…Then the man got up and simply said, “I’m sorry….he’s dead.”

My legs started getting heavy and my vision blurry…but then, suddenly, that moment was gone and I found myself in some house, though still feeling completely shocked and saddened by something I could not remember. Then someone knocked on the door, almost shaking me awake.

As I made my way to the door to open it, I recognized a picture of my brother hanging on the wall right beside the door. He was wearing a checkered blue shirt and had his hair parted on the side, sporting a big smile that showed off his two front teeth: it was a picture of him as very young kid – perhaps the one my parents took years ago, when he sat on Santa’s Lap at some mall. That picture stalled me from opening the door; it brought back a crippling depression that until then I wasn’t sure what it meant. Tears began coming out of my eyes, though the moment was interrupted by another loud knock.

When I opened the door, a young guy and a young girl came in — I think the girl might have been my ex-girlfriend. The guy had a big, green backpack, and in it there was a huge bottle of rum. When I saw the bottle, I suddenly realized that it had been months since my brother’s death, and that the entire time I had been drinking myself to death, too. The guy apparently knew that, and that is why he brought the bottle, though he didn’t seem like he wanted to drink at all.

Then the girl mentioned my brother — perhaps saying something nice — which only weakened my knees and blurred my vision again as I was gripped with fear…panic….sadness…I then took one more close look at that picture, as if trying to etch it in my brain, grabbed the bottle of liquor from the guy, and began walking to my left, towards some room off in the distance, leaving those two people behind me.

Once in the room, I remember only lying down on a big bed, face down and bawling my eyes out. I was having difficulty breathing, too. Then the girl came in and said something, not realizing I was crying. I then slowly lifted my head and turned towards her to say something about the death of my brother…Then I slowly pushed my face back onto the bed and continued crying…

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was in my room here in London. But I had also been crying — my eyes were full of tears — and this fact, for the first few seconds, had me convinced that he was indeed dead. After a minute or so, I realized it had all been a dream…but I could not stop crying.


Some things don’t come wrapped in pretty packaging, with bright colours and soft, silk ribbons. Some things, sometimes, come engulfed in fire and death, warped by violence and delivered in fury.

There was only darkness in the future.

The skies were covered with ash – they looked like a painting that had been smeared by deadly, giant hands that only yearned to destroy something beautiful. Paranoia — fear and loathing — were all you felt in that desolate place, though it was softened by the melancholic past that played over in your head. That’s the only place where they managed to escape: in their head, for they knew the present was already ablaze.

So with blood and fire, the new pages of history were written. Brimstone burned in the distance, but for now everyone consumed themselves in the impossible; in that which they were told they could not do. They bled themselves to death writing their own lives in the sky and in the sand of the greatest deserts and in the oceans around the globe. Sacrifice was their absolute recompense.

And their death and life as soldiers both devoured and inspired. Like Venom, it spread through the veins under the sea. Like tentacles of the great octopus that haunted our dreams as kids. It reached across and sucked everyone in. Thirst for the Black Venom had us all sweating greed.

So engulfed as it begun, engulfed it will crumble. But not in vein will blood be shed, nor the sacrifice be volunteered. Not if the Tentacles are cut off for good; if the Eagle breaks its wings; if the head of Medusa is cut off; if the King is dethroned.

Could the Third TIme around indeed, be the charm? 

An Arrow Into the Night-Sky: Searching

“Call to me and I will answer you, and I will tell you great and mighty things, which you do not know…” – Jeremiah, 33:3


His divergent mind sought not to believe, for that notion birthed the germ of its own negation: the possibility of being wrong. That wasn’t enough for him, for he loathed the thick bog to which so many have succumbed: the muddied waters that soil the opened mind; those swamps where uncertainty lurks inside; the contaminated oceans that separate “Sinners” from a “Divine.”

Inside such a conflicted mind, even to be convinced was ne’er the goal. Thunder and lightning sure roared within, but they were merely 24 years old. And, he finds, that to be convinced, despite its apparent appeal, is only the acceptance of someone else’s will — their swill. It’s essence is accepting defeat; its virtue is in someone else’s skills. Finally, it demands a faith in something  the heart does not feel; faith in something to which our all-too-human cries could never, in a thousand years, reach nor appeal.

But, Alas! Inside his addled mind of turmoil and calm, of here and there, of his and everyone’s, of all and nothing, there is a clamour — a call — a loud request wrapped in armor. He clamours because he wants to be heard. He seeks the Answer because he wants the next step.

“Faith is no excuse for pusillanimity!” he growls aloud, for he’d chosen sides long ago. Rather, it is a virtue, but which he wants earned, not bought.

So he awaits…Awaits for an Answer to wash down upon him. For a light or a voice to illuminate the darkness. For a sign or a feeling to jolt the nerves. For the First Lightning to strike the night. For the kind of knowing that only he who is, and he who wants, can ever truly come to ignite.

And he remembers, as he vanishes in smoke, that faith is worth all when Earned, but nothing when Bought.


There it was! There it is! Dear god, it’s still here!

The pile – that heap – lifeless but sick, there always! It hums and it moans, and it haunts me in my sleep — it taunts me!

Because it knows I loathe and despise its presence; that I abhor its plain and full existence. But it also knows that I could never bring myself to kill it, to maim it — just to even contain it. For I fathered it’s putrid and rotten experience: the layers of grease — and all things immaterial —  that now weigh it down and kill its spirit.

So it slithers….around the entire house it goes leaving a thick mucus behind. Rotten stench. Ugly. But deceitful to fearful eyes. The others are blind. They see it not. They believe it is the mere stench of death.

But I know it. I see it. It follows me around to taunt me. I conquer it every day; slay it every night; drink it every morning; caress it in the evening. It devours me, and I destroy it from inside.  It remains in my skin as it moves around. Then it returns to do it all over again!


Originally Published September 3, 2011

“Lightning flashes of insight into the mirth of a dark sky…”

The joy is in feeling eternal.

As it starts to work on me, it blinds me from the trouble ahead.  The light seems clearer and shinier, and for some unknown reason I dare not try to explore, I feel 100%.  Bright Colors are nice, but this calm is essential…

The first moments come unexpected.  My body feels flushed.  There is heat building up from within and it slowly seeps through my skin.  Before I know it, the warmth has taken over my body and if I didn’t know better, I would swear I were floating.

An overwhelming calm wraps me like a blanket.  I feel safe, but more importantly I feel as if I could completely be secure about the future, because I think that as long as I can sustain this feeling, the rest of the pieces will simply fall into place.  It is an amazing feeling, because regardless of the tumultuous events happening around me – the thunder destroying me and the monsoon soaking me – I feel no worry; I am safe, as if in a womb.  There is no worry.

Though my body remains still, I feel as though my mind has reached places few of us have seen or been to.  I feel as though I’ve felt something only the Saints were supposed to feel.

But I hold no grudge.  And I repudiate selfishness and egoism.  So I don’t intend to make this feeling solely mine.  I intend to share it with the world; to allow light to radiate through me; to inspire the fellow who thought about surrendering.

I feel no heaviness, and I feel no weight. I am full – not an empty vessel – but there is no strain needed to lift me up. I am weightless.  I float.  I am above the ground and above mediocrity. I am high above. It’s a feeling of eternity.

This is the feeling I felt, and which blinded me. This is what I attempted to sustain…..


But I couldn’t.  The moment was over.  The high became a low. The calm was suddenly shaken by a storm.

With eyes wide open – gazing straight ahead at the dismal future and the ensuing struggle – I realize now I was duped.

It wasn’t eternity: it was deceitfulness.  It wasn’t empowerment: It was weakness. It wasn’t happiness: it was merely a sedative. And finally, it wasn’t life: it was just – and forever nothing more – a drug.


A sensation. A high. An alternative reality. But it was a drug.

Now it is gone.  And now, in this erratic calmness – in this soothing emptiness – at the bottom of the barrel – after the smoke has cleared and the snow has melted – at the last hour – in this place of quiet, I reflect:

I was just getting high. I made no progress.  I sedated myself….and now that is all gone.

The future is bright; but the road is covered in shards of glass, and I forgot my shoes inside a wilderness…