I love to create. I picked up a pencil when I was 3 years old and started to draw my world. As soon as I knew how to make words, I created them too. I made up stories and fantasy worlds and made-up languages for those worlds. I wrote sad poems and filled up journal pages with all the words that made me want to cry. All the words I wanted so badly to scream.

I still create today, too. Not as much as when times were slower. Quieter. Simpler. Now I have to fit in short bursts of creativity between virtual meetings and doctor's appointments. Sometimes I'll find that I've run out of words to say after a long day of work. I've said them all in small talk and emails. My identity as an artist stops where my career begins.

Some people insist there's a way I can have it all. Have I looked into monetizing my graphic design? Have I put my illustrations on Etsy? Ultimately, what they're asking is: is it making you money?

In their eyes, it only counts if you monetize it. You can't be allowed to just enjoy something. You can't want to create for yourself. You have to give yourself away to be valuable.

A creative hooker. Someone who strips their ego and bares their soul on the page for the enjoyment of others, with a token dollar thrown at them. They hate it now. They remember when they started, blinded by the prospect of getting paid to do what they love. Now they sit disillusioned in front of a laptop. They're on their fourth coffee of the day — whatever it takes to meet those deadlines. They haven't done it for pleasure in months.

I didn't want that to be me. I didn't want to hate what I once loved. I didn't want to grow to resent my passion. By separating my two lives, I protect it. I allow it to ebb and flow and grow alongside me. There are some things you just can't force. And there are some things I'm just not willing to give away.

She shivers when he touches her.

There’s no warmth in his embrace; there is power. His strength is concrete in a silk suit, and she's helpless to stop his hands from roaming what's his.

She is stripped one button at a time, but she was bare all along.

The pool of her clothes is a reflection of her complete surrender.

"Are you sure?" His whisper holds no promise of tomorrow, only night everlasting.

Her love for him is the hill she'll die on, but she’ll never know the grave’s cold comfort.

She becomes his crimson bride, and sunsets become memories.

...it is the day

we sanctimoniously

state:

Never again!

and then, add,

Post-mortem

is better than

boredom;

but that is of course

odd hearsay

drolly

repeated

to expedite

the errata

of our ways

In a lot of ways, I’m easy to get along with. I’m a people-pleaser; I almost always do what’s asked of me. And 99 times out of 100, I’m appreciated for that.

But this . . . this is one thing I refuse to relinquish. Is it so much to ask for a bit of comfort, a bit of relaxation? I’m happy to stay quiet, to mind my own business and not bother anyone else. Why can’t she treat me with the same courtesy?

She stands over me, hovering, glaring. God, I hate that look. But I’m taking a stand, so to speak. I won’t let her take this from me; I deserve this!

“Come on, Charlie!” she says, giving me a little push. But I refuse to move. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be. When she realizes she can’t physically move me, she tries bribery - my favorite food. I admit that I’m tempted, but I stay firm. I’ve claimed my prize, and she won’t take it from me!

“Charlie, this isn’t like you!” she insists. She sounds hurt, like I’ve disappointed her. It almost breaks me. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My only reply is a small whimper. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t think I’m asking for that much. I’m not being unreasonable, especially not when you consider how I’m normally treated around here!

“Really?” she says finally, her hands on her hips. “This is the hill you want to die on?”

I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she knows I understand.

She huffs at me, but I can see the slight smile on her face that tells me I’ve won. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says as she leans over and scratches me behind the ears. “I don’t know why I bother trying to enforce the ‘No dogs on the furniture’ rule.”

Everyone has a hill (or hills) they are willing to die on. At least we should. Because having a hill worth dying on adds to a purpose-driven existence by bringing commitment into your life. These hills offer a plateau with unobstructed exposure so we can cast out a beacon of wisdom to shine for those in the shadows.

Some hills are universal and meant to be shared. These hills have an expansive surface allowing many to gather. Here the focus is on a unifying idea. Some hills are personal and meant to be kept private, providing us with a setting for quiet introspection. Then we can lead by example, motivating others to seek out their own hills.

Some hills battle a herd mentality. These hills of solitude are important to occupy when the mentality’s goal is keeping the herd in line as it is being unknowingly led to slaughter. These hills are difficult to occupy due to the constant barrage of pummeling, gale-force winds fueled by “public opinion” and “common sense.” Both doctrines serve important roles in society but need frequent reviewing so as not to become entrenched in senseless dogma or permanent obsolescence.

The hill I’m willing to die on has two peaks. One involves striving to live a better life today than I did yesterday. The other is to give more than I take.

What terrifies me are the hills not worth dying on. I try with all my might to avoid these hills. But no matter where the compass of life directs me, they remain a pervasive component of the landscape. I ignore them as they disappear over the horizon behind me. Then, like the decorative panels on the hub of a carousel, they reappear in my periphery. These are the hills known as Should of, Could of, Would of.

It’s easy for me to get misdirected onto the primrose path leading to these hills. That’s the danger. Even though they’re familiar, I’m still susceptible to their siren’s song. They welcome me without any blatant alarms to grab my attention or an imposing gate to arrest my momentum. A red “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK” placard is absent. This ensures an unimpeded beginning. My diversion of hiking to the summit, although not something I want to do, seems manageable. Why not? The destination looks promising.

After a while, the terrain becomes uneven. It’s still navigable, just annoying. My shoelace loosens. Then my left sock bunched up around my toes. No problem. I stop long enough to resolve both issues. Again, more an inconvenience than a premonition. I accept that the path now has treacherous stretches. I proceed, convincing myself I’ll be okay.

I follow the trail as it ascends through the woods. Whereas I used to take in the lush foliage and scenery, I’m now constantly glancing at the ground to avoid tripping over the large stones in my way. Being forced to look downward, my eye catches sight of the missed opportunities strewn about the forest floor, cast aside during previous excursions, like snapped branches from past storms. They’re omnipresent. Some are fresh while others have already become detritus.

The hike now takes on a different vibe. Although concerned about why others failed attempting this trek, I continue taking measured steps. I won’t succumb to the pitfalls they couldn’t see or didn’t avoid. I’ll be fine. It’ll be different for me. I march on, albeit at a slower pace. Nearing the crest as the sky comes into view, it’s apparent I’ve made a mistake. Then I face the harsh realization that it’s too late to do anything about it.

Those venturing here before me didn’t reassess their plans and turn around at the first sign something’s wrong. They didn't take an alternate route when this one veered off in a different direction. Or not taken this route at all. They didn’t stop and cut their losses. They didn’t do any of these. And neither did I. So, I’m now standing in their presence, sharing a fellowship of failure.

I thought this summit would offer a panoramic view with awe-inspiring sights destined to be showcased on travel websites. Instead, I’m teetering on a lonely, foreboding precipice. I was conscientiously responsible for each stride I took to reach this perilous drop-off. Yet I still ask myself, “How did I get here?”

How did I get here? Well, by traversing a solid foundation of denial which rose to dizzying heights of regret. Now I’m inhaling uncertainty over the best way to leave this perch. I must bushwhack to find a different, possibly more perilous, route back to the trailhead. I have delayed reaching a goal by offering excuses for my missteps instead of learning from them. By not dealing with reality, my forced behavior resulted in a dead end. I have wasted time and resources all the while squandering the progress I was making. Moving forward has been sidetracked.

These are the hills I fear dying on.

It’s invisible. Though prominently raised through many trials and tribulations, it stands proud and true yet unrevealed to all save me. I've trudged up and down that mighty hill more times than I can recall, leaving my footprints - along with blood, sweat, and tears - engrained on its landscape. I’m actually quite proud to say that hill is mine – I own that piece of property free and clear. Its design echoes a life filled with an overwhelming array of challenges, all presented in over half of a century and filled with a steep inclination to survive. It has not always been an easy climb up and down my hill's rocky course, but it has always been a necessity, rich in lessons but more importantly, just a plain ole' reinforcement in perseverance.

I shall fall on my sword and die one day high atop my invisible hill, succumbing to the inevitable that claims us all no matter how much we resist. When I meet my end and cross to whatever lies ahead, I’ll probably find more hills, both invisible and otherwise. I hope those hills won’t be so treacherous as my little one, but after all I’ve done and said – and all I’ve failed to do and say - it’s very likely the next ones will be mountains that ascend to touch the clouds.

It goes without saying, I’ll do my best to delay that bit of hiking.

Wrapped up...

Trapped in words like

Webs...

She shuts an eye to you,

But still

The light pours through

Her windowsill,

And drags you out the

Gutter

Like a listless empty bottle

That's been traded

Hand to hand

From every broken, lonesome man

Who wants for nothing,

But one kiss

Upon a hopeful night of black

Out in the city

Of cruel steel,

Where deeper still there

Lies the chance

For a creative fresh upheaval,

Brand new rebellion of the soil!...

Dream with me, and see this

Bridge!...

The edge of consciousness

Will switch

For every upturned rock,

Or stone...

It comes with kindness,

Well stretched bones

Will feel a tendency to snap,

But don't allow the mirror

To crack,

Unless you want a second

Self...

This can be useful in itself...

Wrapped up...

Trapped in words like

Webs...

She shuts an eye to you,

But still

The light pours through

Her windowsill,

And drags you out of

What you know...

Be it the drug,

Or magnet pull...

There's always some new

Sleight of hand

That teaches you to understand

Inside this origami gift...

The future lingers

In her lips,

But also sings out

From the coast...

You have to ring the Holy Ghost,

And make a burning choice tonight...

It's always you who knows what's right...

8/14/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #2

When you said, like taffy to my teeth, that you loved me,

I gagged on the saccharine flavour of it.

It clung, though. To my throat, to my bones, my joints...

I could hardly move with the admission.

I used to claim to hate you. Proudly and loudly.

I thought I did. Maybe I simply hated how we transitioned;

from playing with action men to in-action assault.

Fists and vitriol were our way, where our parents were so close to their siblings.

But it has gradually, like trudging through thick sap, grown on us.

It has been uncomfortable. I had to blink away my shock, when you continuously showed up without word for me.

With tentative suggestion of concerts, offering me a ticket soundlessly,

Nodding to the TV to watch a show when our parents head for bed.

As grandparents leave us, and our parents age,

all we have is each other. So we sit in the clinging sap.

We cling to each other, without further worldly affection.

Yet we are as strong as were when we met, you fat in the face,

And I, blinking up at you with a strange recognition.

We share scrunched faces when we do something similar now,

roll our eyes at our differences that lead to bickering.

But I tuck myself away, grinning, comforted that we are fine.

We have each other. And while you enrage me, you will never break my heart.

We have each other, and if thats all we have, I will be rich.

We go up

climb

for that splash, of cold water

we go alone, or with boy or girl,

with old friends trailing,

or, following

after

supposed hero

on mounds of experience

we find moles, burgeoning

with hidden insight

ugly, but operable

and think! if only we could

get to that holy door, atop

that clear

insurmountable, Sinai, the

definitively comprehensible...

The Simple guides

to the rolling foot,

of the ultimate

country club

Then

we'd change places with God

...disregarding, the Almighty

looks through, not down,

nor over...

All,

and we tumble, at every phase

headlong, by passion

with pail and list

for things, and glory,

hoping the broken crown

at the bottom

is genuine

and worth it

like Love

of quest and fill

Bucket in fist

up that knoll

we press

to find ourselves

in splash of cold, compress

as we tumble and roll

spill and fall, and

rise, older, to climb

again

in search of the well,

and the hill

which we believe

we are getting on

or over...

08.16.2024

This is the hill... challenge @Mariah

This is the hill I will die on.

It's staying away from my mom.

From her anger and shame

From all of her blame

it's staying away from my mom.

Yet, some how you don't believe me.

Why would I make this up?

I wanted a mother too.

Do you know how much it took to give up?

To sit and wait on a mountain.

Alone, and unwanted.

Asking for a plate

or a silver stake

or maybe

just...

a crumb

Do you know what it's like on that mountain?

Watching the world rise

and knowing you'd never go there

cause you already died inside.

To turn around

and touch the ground

to see a world

where you don't want to be

to just stop

and sit down.

Do you know what it's like to live there?

A place

void of hope

Where there's mountain's high,

that touch the sky!

Only,

it's joke.

You sit there and choke.

You choke on your misery

You choke on your dreams

as they slide down

onto the ground

where they never will be seen.

This is the hill I will die on.

This is how I will live.

With hate inside, with will I defy,

Hoping I'll

finally,

be free.