The Last Bits of Nothingness

I woke up today feeling good. While I slept, I played in my dreams with friends from across the world and friends from throughout my life. We broke into a building and had a war with fire extinguishers. That was my dream. I made it out just before the police came and began wagging there fingers at those they caught for doing such a wrong thing. It was the best dream I've had in a while. There was no death, no fear, no panic. I didn't wake up sweating or sad. My eyes just opened unassumingly, waiting for the waking experiences to dictate what was felt. There were birds chirping and I could see the blue of the beautiful sky beyond the bushes outside my window. There wasn't any need to worry. I woke empty, ready to be filled in by the day.

The clock said 7:30 when I rubbed my eyes and gave it a glance. The mornings are my favorite times, at this time in my life. But waking at 7:30 when you don't have a job and no money to spend, well all that does is give you more time to think or be bored. The beginning was boring. After I showered, I sat in the living room and watched the window for a few minutes. Then I opened the shades and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I love the mornings for many reasons, but take away all the beauty of the first moments of sun, and the contemplative silence that comes, and leave the coffee and I'll be set. I love the mornings because of coffee.

There might not be any spice to these words right now, but I'm ok with that. They are forced. These words are part of a last ditch attempt by some part of my mind, heart, or soul to keep me from doing the serious work, the scary work, the intense and longstanding work that requires only the best I can give. Well, I'll get to it after I write this and after I go back to the bathroom, which might take a while because I ate too much lamb last night and then got high and swallowed a box of Tim Tams, the magical Australian cookie that disintegrates into a blissful mud pile when it comes in contact with hot liquid, forcing the eater to shove all of the dark oozing goodness viciously into their mouth to avoid staining any clothing or furniture with drips and drops of melting chocolate. Yes, I might have to hit the bathroom again. But then I'll get to work. Well, no. I have a really good book and I'll just read that instead. I'll just bide my time until it has to get done. Well, it has to get done. Now is the time and people are waiting. Listen to my little delusions. Are people waiting to hear the story? Well how could they know they want to hear it, how could I know they are waiting? I haven't written it yet.

I'm scared, but that is why I must write. I'm bored, but that is just a ploy from the devilish side of my mind that doesn't believe in me. I'm curious and I know that the ending hasn't even happened and therefore can't be written. But that makes it all the better. I have loose outlines written down. My mind is aware of the correct formats, and what it will sound like, what it will feel like, if I do this right. If I write honestly, if I tell the whole story, if I tell it for the right reasons, than the end will present itself after I've written the beginning and middle. How does one write the story of their life when they have just begun living it? Well, you can discuss that question too, in the book. Just start writing it. Stop writing this and start writing IT.

Did I do that already? What of the many pages that have been written? Are those not the book? Ah, that is, in it's current state, just madness. It's like the young Chilean man said, the madness is the honest way of living, but if I can turn the madness into work, if I can organize it, than I can succeed with the madness alone. So the pages written are just madness. The words I have written are thoughts, fears, visions of pain and hope, memories of both, but without structure, without the work of turning them into a piece of the whole story, they are just pieces of a story that has never been completely told. It's time to tell the story. It's time to focus, get the outline down, fill it in, decide the right plan of action, put it all on a giant piece of paper and then light it on fire. Fuck the idea of planning. It is just another way to wait. Do. Just do. That is the task of one who is inspired and understands that the feeling of inspiration wont leave until the work is done. How do you just sit and write a book? Don't know, but that will make it so much more interesting to do it.

Am I wearing the right pants for writing a book? Is the temperature right, for writing? How about the music? Is this a good song to start with? Should I play it on repeat? Yes, that's right. Get it out. Let the last of this senseless waiting come out for your own eyes to see. The history of man may not have a single writer who was concerned with whether or not they were wearing the correct pants for writing. Maybe no one ever thought of how important that could be? Maybe I'm an idiot. Or maybe an intelligent idiot! Yes, I like that. Makes sense. And these are the perfect pants to write a book in, I can feel it. As long as I don't continue my Tim Tam addiction, I'll be able to continue wearing them and continue writing. Maybe I don't change pants until the book is done. Maybe I can do this all day, come up with excuses and ideas to discuss without ever really doing anything. I know I could. In fact, that's why I am writing this.

Yes, these words are for you, procrastination. You see, I'm done waiting and I just wanted you to know that you won't be needed for a while. It's a tough blow, I know. It sucks to feel useless. But you're not useless. You're a friend forever, just like anger, ambition, and all the rest. Yes, procrastination, these words are a small gift to you, a token of gratitude for keeping me in a state of, well, in a state of something, until now. Now I am ready and I'm glad to embark on my own journey. I might have been too scared before, but you, procrastination, you kept me from having to face that fear until I was strong enough. Now I know you might not believe it but I am ready. I am ready to structure my thoughts, to tell a story that might not ever be read, to take my days and nights and any moment I see fit, and continue the pursuit of a goal that will take guts, tears, and more. I'm ready to face the truth of my heart and soul. I'm already doing it. I'm living honestly, with fear and confidence, in the known and unknown. Now I'm ready to write the story, to write a story of a man who is learning.

As I began reading a good book by the heater earlier, after the shower and before I decided to write, I couldn't get through more than a page without having to put it down and write my own ideas on scraps of paper. Maybe I'm not a writer. Maybe I'm not going to write more than one story. But I am going to write this story. Maybe I will let go of labels, let go of sickness and health, of education and wealth, and just be. Perhaps that is what I want to write, a story about why most of what we know matters less than what we really need. Even needs can be argued. Food, water, shelter, love? What if you had to pick one and let go of the rest? Could love feed us and quench thirst? Could the body live on water and food alone, without love? Isn't love the only real shelter? These are the questions that feed my mind and drive my fingers. It's time to take this seriously. This passion is demanding I notice it. Yes, I'll write. And yes, I'll wait for sleep if I need to keep writing. Yes, I'll do what I must to remain focused while knowing that passion isn't a passing feeling but an emotion kept at the ready for whenever I decide it is needed. Is this a creative burst? Well, if it is, it's because I say so.

I am compelled to continue this journey, the story of living life, but I have reached a point where it's time to write it down, whatever I've learned or realized, it's time to write that story. So many people believe in me. So many knew this would happen. Not me, though. I just started believing. Before it was talk, and now I know. Being something isn't always a choice. We are who we are. Some of us do what we must, what our hearts tell us, and others wish they could. I'm not letting pride get in the way. This is not an ego dance. I do not desire anything but love and the completion of this story. That, at this point in my life, is what I need. I'll tell you why I worry, why I know that things are not ok a lot of the time, and hope that it helps. This story only gained worth in my mind when I realized that I needed to write it down because telling it made others wonder, feel strength, or become reassured that life isn't one sided. I've been able to talk and make people think. I've made many mistakes. I'm blessed to have had these moments. They may end. No one might read my words, but I'll write them. For me, for my family. For the ones who have doubted themselves and waited for death only to wait long enough that they feel the first moments of life, I'll write for them.

As the story builds, my life will change and all that I've already done may be worth nothing. But worth is a choice. Writing is worth my time. Sitting around bored, reading books and writing my own is worth it. I'll call my potential employer today and ask if they have made any progress with my application, but there's a reason I haven't yet. There's a reason I sent in one copy of my resume to one employer. The reason, maybe, is that I've got better things to do than get a job. I've got enough money to buy food, if eating is a need, and I've got love. Love has given me time. The story of love, the story of my love for the woman that I love, has given me this time to write it all down. She loves me, and I love her. We both know that this story must be written. My friends are close by and they would never let me starve. My family and I have not connected as much, but things are changing rapidly. A new brother, a new sister in law, a new step in the evolution of a family. Yet some are not happy, some of the people that I love back home worry too much and they're too busy to cry about it. I'm going to write for them. I'm going to sit here and click black keys with white letters on them. Yes, me and my college degree, my climbing debt and with the immediate end of the cash flow in sight. I'll just sit here and click keys because I know it is worth it. Even if these words do nothing but carry me through to the next day, they're doing their job. After all, words are just that - words.

But words save. Words change and grow. Words can help and hurt. Let's see what my words can do. Let's see if I can keep this up. Let's see if this is the final goodbye, for a while, to that jolly fat man named procrastination, the one who feeds me cookies and makes me run to the bathroom every time I have a good idea, the guy who knows just when to make my arm itch or my lips desire a cigarette. He knows just when to throw in some other thought or desire, to keep me from doing what I must. Well I don't smoke anymore. There's no more weed. I've watched all the movies, and there's no way I could have to go the the bathroom again. Wait, I think I do need to, real quick, wait, what was I saying? Ha. Nice try Procrastination, you beautiful feeling. It's already happened. There's nothing left to stop. I've begun. It's time to get to work.

Looking back while walking forward

It didn't take long, maybe only ten minutes, to read all of the scattered entries I've written in this public space over the past six months. There is so much smiling that must be done when I realize how far I am from where I thought I'd be. I believe it was an entry that I wrote in March that mentioned the importance of traveling through the United States so I could find the American dream. Well, I don't know much, but I think that looking for the American dream in Australia might not be the most realistic path. It wasn't long ago that I was set on driving across my country alone. It wasn't long ago that I was in winter, wondering whether or not I had the guts to finish those last few months of school, whether or not I was stubborn enough to go on with my plan. Well I had the guts to get through and I drank a lot, which helps stubborn people avoid anything but their own narrow minded stubborness, and continued on my cute little journey.

No, I'm not mocking myself. Yes I am. Ha. The truth is that the points of life that cause the most intense realizations, that come with tears and screams of, "what the fuck do I do with this?," well it's those points that should be mocked. I was amidst an intense apology to my new roommates the other night for being so aggressive with my negativity over recent days when something happened. There I was, begging for forgiveness from old friends and new family, when one of them looked at another with her finger over her lip. She had drawn a fake mustache on it while I was talking. I was in the middle of baring my soul and suddenly the two women nearby erupted with giggles which showed me a thing or two. If things are so intense, if a moment is so heartfelt that it could bring tears, if someone is demanding serious attention, just draw a fake mustache on your finger and giggle at them. It helps. It humbles. It's good to laugh, no matter when, and no matter what was going on before we laughed.

It's sometimes hard to find a song when I am writing. A lot of the time I spend writing, I'll be listening to a single song on repeat, letting a song that reflects my emotion and understanding accompany my moment so that I have the combination of melody and madness to get the right words out. I haven't found the song today. I hit next and the next song comes, but none have matched this feeling that I have. Its a feeling that I don't know, but every feeling is a combination of the simple feelings. It's like primary colors. All we need is a few colors to make every color. All we need is a few emotions to feel everything.

Ah. It happened. Got the song. Want to know what it is? Well, thats not important now. I have things to say. There were a few realizations after I read through my previous entries. It became immediately apparent that I was more stubborn than I would ever need to be. Well, maybe not. Maybe that drive was the thing that helped me get through the task of graduating college. So many people, for so long, told me it wasn't possible. Maybe I had to have that ego chest puffing session to get through. Still, I see someone confident but unaware. Even though much of my writing had bits of truth to it. I also realized that I repeat myself a lot. There are times when I, unaware of it at the moment, write the exact same things a few months apart. It's good to write things down and look back at them. It is helping me to take stock of what to do next and my previous rants are providing me with invaluable amounts of information on who I was so I can truly see the difference between that and who I am. Last night I shaved my beard. I bought a new shaver to trim the hair and keep the chin strap style face blanket that has covered my cheek bones for years, but the trimmer didn't work. I had to use scissors to get through the first few inches of the matted fur and then realized that I just needed to get it off. So I shaved my face with a razor. I removed my little wall and was astounded to see a face I didn't even recognize, hiding underneath. I have hesitated at the thought of saying it, but now I have to let it be heard. I've killed of Fester, the madman I was. And I've become Alex Raeburn, the madman I always hoped to be. Yes, madness never leaves. I like that about myself, and about life. But what has left is the pigheaded confidence of ignorance. It has been gently replaced by a mental step back and a man who looks and smiles because that is the best solution at any time.

I wanted to write something about addiction and fear. I will do this. These words are merely a preview. There is an extreme bond between addiction and fear, if we can even see them as separate. They are one and the same. On this, my eighth day of being a non smoker, I can look back at last week and know that smoking has always been much more than smoking to me. It was a constant excuse and it made room for other constant excuses. All addictions give us something to do when we don't know what to do. They replace the journey we all take, or moments of it, with the sense of comfort that only repetition, only stagnation, can bring. Even weed is an addiction to me. When things happen, when anything happens good or bad, when things get intense, I reach for something on the outside. I reach for a smoke or a joint, or a beer or a pill. I've changed my intake of these substances drastically in the past five years but I have trouble letting go of that little toke of weed every day. It's not just getting high to me. It's another physical representation of the indulgence in fear. Oh gosh, I'm so anxious that I need to get high. Really? Cause I bet you'll still be alive tomorrow, either way. If I don't have weed, what will I do? Take a deep breath. But I need SOMETHING? Ha, you've already got everything and breathing will let you see that. Maybe I won't stop smoking weed today. Well, maybe I won't ever believe that I can stand strong through everything and anything. This isn't some speech against weed. I need you all, whoever reads this, to know that weed is far less of a crutch than any other substance I have come in contact with. It is the lesser of many evils, but for those who search for any and all escapes, those who want to learn on a substance even after they've given up everything else, weed is just the last thing that is acceptable to hold on to. Most people get high and enjoy it. I feel like I'm responding to a need. It is detrimental in the end, for me. Besides, smoking weed and not smoking weed are very similar. In fact, they're so closely related that the only difference I can say is that you're just not high when you don't smoke. Is life better or worse when stoned? Not really. I mean a good talk or even a tasty sandwich has more effect on my body and mind than a toke of grass. Funny how life works. I'll write about the addiction/fear dilemma at some point. This is just a taste. Just one hit of truth, from my head, the place where truth doesn't mean much until it is there every day, through good and bad, and never stops saying the same thing. Time to be the monk. TIme to stop pretending.

So much to say. So much to say, but the flow is different than the other day. It happens. Words pour out like a waterfall on one day, and then they slow to the trickle of a bathroom sink the next. Tis life. Up and down. Tis honest. Tis. Love that word. I think its a word. If not, I declare it an unword. Hm. Idea. I'll write a book, an entire book, with unwords. Do you know what I mean? Funny if you do cause I haven't the slightest clue what it would look like, even though I know it could be done. Ah sillyness. I like it when my mind and fingers put out words that act the same as the curly black mustache my friend drew on her finger the other night during my dramatic moment. Time to laugh. Time to continue the adventure and get over the past. Time to let go and grab onto something new. New habits and new thoughts. A new look. A new man. Nice to meet, me. Thats what I have to say when I look in the mirror. It's so strange not having a beard for the first time in years. I walked by some glass store fronts today and kept looking at them like, who is this guy walking in my clothes at the exact same speed as me? I wonder what he thinks and what he feels. I wonder what this man is capable of. It's strange and inspiring. I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy, I mean that guy Fester, the one with the beard, he was nutty as a loon, but he had a good heart. Let's see what happens now, in this new life.

I am writing like I had hoped to. There was a moment last night, a moment after shaving when I was looking at this weird face through the fog of the wet mirror, when I realized how many pages I had written during the day. I thought about how I could measure how many pages I was writing per hour, for the hours that I am awake. I then thought how exciting it will be to measure the pages in the hours of the day, including those few when I rest in bed. I've been writing more than I have to say, which is weird but somehow makes sense. Maybe I didn't realize how much I really had to say and how much this journey would really mean. That's what I was thinking when I looked in the mirror. Then I smiled slightly with this new face and thought, "Holy shit. Maybe I will actually get a book done."

There have been many moments in life where I measure myself with my writing. Then I don't write enough and find peace in other ways, in talking to a friend, or walking and smiling at the sky. Those are the days I set out to write and end the day with, "Well, at least I made someone smile." I enjoy measuring myself like this. Have I done something positive today? If the answer is yes than be as happy as if you were Buddha. If not, let it go and be as happy as Buddha. There's always tomorrow. Now its different. I used to find the time to be a good friend and I'd find that experience so exhausting that I would resign myself to couch sitting for the rest of the day. Now I find myself finishing a conversation and not being able to linger. The tv is on and I've got better things to do. I'm glad to have had this moment with you, whoever you are, but I must excuse myself now because I need to write. I NEED to write. It's never felt like that before. Now I can't help but feel like writing a book, writing any book, would be effortless. I mean I am vomiting words like a drunk after a night of whiskey and heartbreak. I might as well let it fall into the bucket and see what it looks like when it is all sitting together.

People ask what I write and I never know what to say. Yes, I write poetry and stories but that's not what I really write. This is what I write. This is it. This is the start of a method of emotional searching and soul discovering that needs the writing to make sense of it all. This is the same outpouring of words that has always come but now I have a new level of honesty and a new lever of forgiveness for myself and the past. I need to write. But I need to follow my heart, as well. It's time to end these words and go back to the other side; living the story. I need to call the woman I love and hear her voice. Then, it's off to the post office to mail out a letter to a Buddhist retreat center, asking them if I can stay there for a month and work instead of paying. I know good will come. I know this is good, this moment. It's time to spend my days writing and meditating. There is no other answer. It's time to take stock of who I have become and where I fit in this vast universe. Too bad I need to get a job and spend time making money, in order to survive. Good thing I know how to make anything worth doing. I've given meaning to being a bus boy. Now I have a college degree, and a clean shaven face. I aspire to love openly and honestly, to challenge myself continuously, to forgive and understand that which I never could, and to sit in whatever it is that every moment brings while smiling and looking at each emotion, greeting it with these words, "It's nice to see you."

From the frontlines: An American heart in Australia

This place started as a prison. It seems fitting. There are many comparisons to be made. A prison in paradise? Yes. This is the most honest and fitting description for our world. We are all in prisons, to some extent, and beyond the walls of every enclosure is the freedom of endless distance, the beauty of the palms blowing in the constant breeze, and the happiness of knowing that prison is another word for fear. No man, no mind, no one with hope could ever be locked away. Sit still and think about it. Sit still and solve all of your problems by sitting and being still. Ah, Western mind, how you wonder about the simplicity of the only answers. Want to know how it works? Too bad. It does. Be happy with that.

Now, on this Australian morning, I sit still after waking with and shaking with the fallacy of fear. It's love, you see. Yes, love. That little part of life that was always a game but ended up bringing pain and the loss of the greatest sense of comfort. Love can change life, but love is just a game. Right? Well, men grow from boys and truth is always redefined. Answers look different from different places, at different times. And love, well the game got serious. Now there is no choice but to bet hard, to put it all in and stare stiffly at the table as the wheel spins. I hope that bouncing ball of stone lands on red, but if it doesn't, the only other choice it has is to rest in black. Back to the feeling of a morning and the blackness of waking alone when all I want is one. One woman to hold. One woman I dream of. Maybe it's because I dreamed of her and woke alone, maybe that's why I shook and worried, why I fought tears and learned again what I've been learning all along. Love is real and not a matter of choice, like so many feelings in this maddening play of existence. We choose to live. If we live, we will love. If we love, we feel pain. If we hurt, we're alive. And the cycle continues, letting us play our part so we never accept that maybe, just maybe, the story was written long ago.

The tears I battled and refused to let go, finally fell. The essence of the my body released in drops that reminded me where I am and what it means. They say I'm in Australia. I say it too. What a world this is! What a time! It took two days in a metal balloon with wings and I was slapped down in the middle of that place that people write about in books so it isn't forgotten because if nobody wrote it and nobody looked, this land would be exactly as it should and exactly how it is. It's here if you want it, but if you don't, those who know will enjoy it all the same. There are palm trees and wild parrots, strange accents and visitors from across the world. I'm on an island but I'll never see both shores. There is a desert here, vast and wide with surfaces of all kinds. There are mountains that turn blue in the setting sun. There are mystical meanings given to beautiful places by a people that may have been the first to bare the responsibility of being people. There have been firsts here. In a beginningless existence, first moments have happened here. Maybe this is the home of the start. Maybe coming here was necessary. Go back from where you came, take a minute and think, and return only when you're ready. The Aboriginal people have no words in their language for yesterday and tomorrow. Every day is today. I arrived in a moment. I'll depart in a moment. If today is all there has ever been than I have been born, lived, struggled, traveled, returned, and died all in a day. If that is true than I'll know it only when the day is done. But it is the start of this day and I woke to watch the first show, when darkness erupts with light and life forces its way back through the bleak. Power is present at sunrise. It's the collision of bliss and nothingness. I never thought that growing up would bring an appreciation of the moments before and after the sun has risen that must be similar to the moment when one watches a child being born. This is endless and it came from the place it's going. This is the answers inside the questions. This is a day worth living, worth feeling. This is a moment that I'll never forget.

But I've forgotten before. I've made mistakes twice and taken chances that I know will leave me alone. This is the mind feigning control. This is the thing that must stop. Yes, we choose and move, we walk and stand under our own control, but what about those moments when that control is lost and you just want one? I'm not yet ready to accept that there is no control, nor could I accept that my sense of control is anything but a sense. The feeling of love changes the look of mountains and the sensation of water from a stream on the skin of every being. The coffee tastes different after love is felt. Love, in every form, has meaning. But love in the true sense, love that defies logic and asks you to risk it all, it makes all the difference. I've loved and lost, taken care of people who have needed it, waited until the right time to act. But now I know. After years of logic and reason, years of thinking before talking and hesitating while walking, I'm ready to jump. Shit. I'm already flying. Isn't that the truth of it? One moment love is a game, that thing that keeps your friends happy for a while and makes your parents long for more, then it happens and love becomes love. No ideas of what makes sense work when love is in play. What will I do? Follow the intensity, take the risk, hope for the best, and walk confidently with eyes that may cry. There is no other choice and metaphors can only mask the duty for so long.

Let's try to be rational here. That's what I used to say. I still throw it out there for good measure. I use it to give logic a little play and let it think it still has as much influence as it once did. Let's be realistic. I am, in the truest sense, now. So you believe in love? I believe in this, more than anything. If life is lived in a moment, if that moment is the meaning of it all, if that moment contains heaven and hell, than that which makes us feel the most of the moment in every way must be followed. Life really is a series of moments. For me, there has always been a longing for love in the truest sense, a love that I rarely saw and rarely see but read about and dream about, a love that I know exists beyond reason.

There are stories about those who are taken by this feeling, lost for a lifetime in the eyes of another. There are people who wait and hope but never win. Then there are those who find it and feel it in a way that never ends. There are people who find another that fits and, if they're wise, they do what they must to keep the feeling, even when it's no longer nearby. Love isn't about trying. It's about accepting and acting. But I'm losing myself in the mist of metaphor once again. Ah, to be a man pretending to be a poet. Looks like I have done it again. I've spent a while putting down words without really saying what it means. If sitting still and smiling can be the answer to all the questions than surely this pouring of words is not entirely necessary. But it feels right. That is why I write.

My coffee has gone cold. The cup is warmer than the liquid it holds. And I sit wondering whether I've said what I needed to, whether I've said all that I could, whether there is more to come. Ludovico Einaudi plays piano in my ears and I wish to yell to the clouds and ask they to play the role of heaven for a second so I can thank them for the essence of melody that can be bent and broken or flow blissfully. I'm a man alone in a forgotten world, on an island that no one who believes only what they see would think to be an island. I guess that those who have been past the clouds are the only ones to have seen this place in its entirety. Imagine that our eyes could see all of it in one look. Imagine looking out a window and seeing everyone who has ever been known and the place where everything we know of thought and emotion has happened. What if we were in the space beyond the fog and on the edge of the unknown abyss? What thoughts would come?

Maybe the same thoughts and feelings, the same sense of being that love brings. I am a man in love with a woman. Yes, it is that kind of love, the kind that will never die and is willing to fight through anything. And I've had this love. I've felt her touch. I've been in a bed beside her, waking to see her sleep, watching her breath and knowing bliss. I've driven long hours to hold her hand. I've waited and watched love walk by. But it's still walking and I can see it over the horizon so I wont give up. Not now or never will this heart stop. I found it. I found her. I've met the woman of my dreams. This rational man who furrows his brow and strokes his beard while he talks has found something worth skipping for. Shit. I do skip, even though she isn't here. Just to know that I love her, that I've spent nights beside the woman that I love, just that is worth a smile that can last a million years before it can go a million more. Love is never lost and hope can heal all wounds. No negative can last. Hate, fear, and misery fade. Love lasts. Love. Breath. Love. That is all.

Are you depressed? Yes and no. Do you know what you're going to do? Probably but I'll realize I'm wrong as soon as I decide I'm right. I love a woman in a way that never stops. I'm blessed to know this. I hope she knows it too. I hope she sees my love revealed, reborn, revived in a way that shows exactly how powerful it is. Love is beyond the rising sun. And music! Music is heaven! But Love! Oh man, LOVE!

Now, I laugh. The coffee is cold and getting colder. There is no microwave to warm it. There is more coffee but my hands already shake because of the caffeine. I miss this woman that I speak of, more than I ever thought possible. Might even lose my mind for this feeling. Shit. Already happened. But I'm sane inside my insanity. I'm balanced with my imbalance. Yes, that's right. I'm a realistic man who is willing to row a bout across the ocean for a kiss. Ah, the contradictions and the smiles that come from watching life unfold. Its fun, this living thing. It's fun to say that you're going to move to Australia for a year and then go further. It's fun to drink wine for weeks until a moment in the rain forest when you wake inside and cry, learning what you had and have lost. It's fun to say, shit I fucked up and I need to go back. It's fun to try and live against the odds. But the fun is speckled with intense pain, like horrid, really bad loneliness, but life is still fun. I woke up sad. I actually thought the devil was waiting for me by my door.I saw his silhouette. Then I remembered I hung my raincoat on the door. It's not the devil, it's a raincoat! That, right there, is all one needs to know about life. Damn nicotine patches make me question whether or not reality is a dream or dreams are the truth. But that is also fun. I have no idea what is going on, ever. I mean none of us do. Is the sky blue and full of white clouds or is the sky white and occasionally flooded with only blue? Fuck if I know, I'll leave that to the scientists who will believe what their tests tell them. I'm a man of faith and feeling and love is my god. Loving the way I do, loving the girl that I love, well, that is all I have ever asked for. Now I have to do whatever it takes to make it work. I write letters and cry. I wake alone and paint, as though I'm a painter, like it would matter if I was. What a world we live in!

I hope she hears this. I hope someone reads this. No, it's not hope born from the ego. It's the other kind. It's hope that says, hey take a look at this and tell me what it means because I laugh and cry at the same time and never really learn enough to stop making big mistakes. In fact, the more I learn, the less I know. But, shit. I know love. I know I love a woman. I know I'll do what it takes. I know I'm a poet and plain. I'm sensational and the same. I am human. Humans like other humans. Sometimes humans like one human a lot. Sometimes its love. Sometimes that love wins. Sometimes humans smile. Ah, the smile.

Goodbye words and any who have read them. Time for me to go running or walking, or both, while talking or thinking, or both. Love life and it will return the favor. Hope can defy logic. Anything is possible.