Dear Bam,

I’d like to think that the world would keep going after I was gone. That once I left, everything would stay the same. No one would mourn me, no one would remember me, no one would miss me. I could exit my body tonight and the world would keep turning, life would go on with no changes.

But that’s not how the world works, is it?

To be honest, I’m a coward at heart. I like to pretend I am caring and loving, that I don’t want anyone to feel sad or hurt by my leaving, but there are so many times where I had the sensation of being able to leave but being too afraid to pick up the blade. Pull the trigger. Drink the bleach.

I know this may seem very directly to you. You may be wondering why I would decide to write to you of all people. But to be honest, I don’t know why.

If I was gone, there indeed would be loss. My squad would miss me, my parents would be sad, (I hope you would miss me too) there would be a gap on the earth the size of my body... but time indeed does heal all wounds.

My parents wouldn’t have to pay anymore of my debts; Cornish may have one less graduate but it’d be filled with another student’s spot; the squad has one another; my church is functioning without me just fine; those that hate me wouldn’t have to worry about my presence anymore.

But then I think again. Is the blood worth it? Is the pain worth it? Is the sight of a destroyed body to a roommate worth it?

no

So I’d rather stay lost and alive but dead, rather than dead and found.

my lungs are burning

throat raw from screaming

hands are tired from beating

against the wall of the bathroom door

that you locked yourself in

you told me you'd decided

that you didn't want to live

a life full of tragedy and lies

and now I'm stuck here

screaming through the walls

about how your life matters

and how we all love you

and instead of opening the door

and coming out to talk

you swallow pill after pill

small sips of whiskey in between

and I'm trying to understand you

but all I want to say

is how selfish it is to only see yourself

in the problems that we both face

and how I wish it was me in there

instead of you

because you could live without me

but I'd die without you

___________________________________

Generally speaking—

—our efforts in Living are vain,

everything is too tight, too plain—

—I’ve strived [sic!] for a storybook life,

and cut my days short with a knife—

—ask us to mingle, and say I could,

but what perchance would make it Good?

—should we exchange more than words,

scouring lives across the floor boards—

—that’s more mess than my container

can make without spilling over—

—odd if emptiness cannot be poured

best be left unsatiated—

—than in turn contaminated

a soul was anchored once though barely—

—know there’s nothing here now, really

and I am sorry—

—I am

I’ll not hurt—

—here

I’ll not hurt

—now

I’m sorry—

—I am

___________________________________

#Suicide #Challenge

It’s written in the old books, that every child has an angel who sits with him in the womb and teaches him every wisdom on earth for nine month.

When the time comes, just a second before the baby steps into this world, his teacher will give him a little slap on his upper lip, wich will make him cry and forget everything he learned.

One angel forgot to hit his student, and it was time for the mother to cry.

The wise baby choose not to breathe, because he knew it all, he knew that a man is better dead than alive.

There is something I think you should know.

It’s time to let me go.

Because I find myself

wanting things

that I know you don’t.

You could try to change my mind.

(But I think you won’t.)

I feel as though I am about to tear through time and space— the very fabric of our existence.

My mind goes farther, faster, quicker. I can see all yet nothing.

I am e

v

e

r

y

t

h

i

n

g

yet I am entirely insignificant

I am there but I am transparent— a ghost floating through existence. Occupying space but not the attention of those around me.

I am unimportant.

A speck of dust in this vast sea of space.

But I am even lesser than dust.

Microscopic.

Erased from space and time.

Just a void.

An empty, messy, chaotic, endless void.

I am nothing.

The night was pitch black with tiny shimmers perpetuating hope-one would say,but seeming rather lonely today.

“Its a beautiful night,ain’t it?”,one asked.The two girls were lying close to the cold grass, at the top of the hill.“Seems more so after the long trip we had to get here.”

“How is it that nature displays its beauty so plain and convincingly while one has to dig deeper for it in humans-only to be disappointed at its fakeness at times.”,she asked.

“You put forth rather deep questions.”

Silence followed.

“Sometimes i wish i didnt”.And she got up,walked gently through the fallen damp leaves.

“Where are you going?”,the other asked.

She held onto an aspen tree.The day had been a lie.She thought she could convince herself of the noted harshness of reality;to give herself the renewed hope she was trying to hold onto everyday.But how long could she keep doing this,lie to herself? She was tired of the unfairness of fate,disappointed by the world,“To the other side.”,she said.

And she let go.

The ashen moth...

She wasn't always empty.

Once upon a time, joy and life

Flowed through her veins

In singing streams.

Tears were rare and anger scarce.

But then she awoke

With her light shining only in memories.

Ashes were ashes.

Dust was dust.

The rose colored lights

Faded into half hearted lies

And false hopes of somehting better.

Not knowing why,

The now ashen moth turned

To dancing with death.

She raced ravens,

Teased tigers,

And flirted with fire.

Maybe she just wanted to feel alive again...

But one day, she disappeared;

The only hints of her existence

In the still ashes of the fading embers

From a lonely fire.

     Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight. 

Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.

     In Rome no one cares who you are. 

     Quite a beautiful feeling.    

     Rome is different.

    Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection. 

     But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome. 

     I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen. 

     This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?

     Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family. 

     Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.

     Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs. 

     Outside it's grey and bright and warm. 

      Austin, 2014. An idea was born into the streets. Two men walking, teeth dry from the ways of liquor. One stares in front. Downtown festival. Talks to the city ahead, but to the one walking next to him.

     I have an idea for an app. 

    Small city, the grey heat. Overcast no match. No hope to burn off the film from the damage last night. Hotel lounge, hair of the dog. The city had grown, and they were strangers now, each waiting to leave there, one by plane, one by car and dog. Talks of Prose., the font. Talks of why it would work, a family the size of a world. Strangers yet not quite. Revolt against apathy. Earned things, lost in paces too fast to retain soul, to keep their light. Drinks and words, the lobby bar turned museum for the old death of the words eaten by technology. A way out through a way back in. 

     We are all here now. 

     Thank you for being here with us. 

     Thank you.