Remember

stony-rose-1224766

 

Any time I don’t know where to go, I end up here.

With you.

The way I always used to run to you,

Remember?

I wonder just how much of me is still you.

How much of me is cold, buried in the dirt.

Listening to nothing but the trains screaming when it gets dark.

Cigarettes.

The first between my teeth, the second behind my ear.

The way you used to do it,

Remember?

We were just kids then.

Nothing but dirt and dead grass now.

Flame. Smoke.

Inhale.

“I still think about you.”

Exhale.

Cold marble under my hand.

“It used to not scare me – coming out here like this. Now it does.

Guess I got scared of dying

Somewhere along the way.”

Inhale.

Cigarette burning out in my mouth, the other unlit between my fingers.

“I guess you don’t need this anymore.”

Exhale.

Tuck it back behind my ear.

The wind howling, tangled up in stone.

In other people’s friends, someone else’s lover. Someone else’s life.

The way I used to dream about ours together,

Remember?

“I wish you were here.”

Trying still not to think about how you always will be.

How you never made it out of this town.

The way you always said you would.

Remember?

 

Hungry

 

quality meats

photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha via Unsplash

The sharp click of her pumps was dulled by the wet pavement, consumed by the soggy concrete walls of the surrounding buildings.

Her reflection followed her in the shop windows as she walked, illuminated with red neon glow from the signs overhead.

In the darkness, his stomach growled. “Yes,” he thought. “She will do.”

_________________________________________________

Three Line Tales weekly writing challenge brought to you by Sonya at Only 100 Words.

Submit your three lines by Sunday to be included in the weekly Round-Up!

Ellen Burne on “Exploring the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone”

I’m not exactly sure when I learned about the Chernobyl disaster. I can’t have been a little kid, where on Earth would I have heard about such an event? I also know that it had to have been sometime prior to 2012. It was in this year that the horror film Chernobyl Diaries was released, and I […]

via Exploring The Chernobyl Exclusion Zone | An Experience Like No Other — TRAVELLING THE WORLD SOLO

R.W. Emerson & Consistently Being Wrong

green-leaves-1180008.jpg

I recently read a post on Tumblr about how being wrong shouldn’t be so stigmatized. That being wrong shouldn’t be seen as a bad thing or a weakness, and that we as human beings should help one another learn and grow rather than tear others down when they are ignorant of a certain topic.

When I read this I thought, wow how cool would that be? How much more intelligent and satisfied as a society would we be if we were comfortable with just being wrong? And besides, who’s ever right 100% of the time? What’s the big deal?

Anyway, this got me to thinking about an essay called “Self-Reliance” I read a couple months back by R.W. Emerson. Emerson, as many of you know, was an extremely influential essayist and philosopher during the 19th century. He was one of the head figures in promoting the idea of Transcendentalism, which is really just a fancy word for thinking for yourself.

Well okay, maybe it’s not quite that simple, but for the purposes of this post that’ll work.

Throughout his essay, Emerson argues that one major reason why it is so hard for people to rely on themselves, on their own thinking instead of other people’s, is because of our inconsistent nature, as well as our nature to point out those inconsistencies in others. And, let’s be honest, we all know someone like this or have even been guilty of doing this ourselves. We view it as hypocrisy rather than growth. Especially in this generation when changing or “switching up” on people is publicized as an extremely negative attribute. We are afraid to say anything that we truly feel or think because someone else may say, “Well hey, you can’t think that. Just the other day you said one thing, and now you’re claiming another.” It’s as if our past actions or past words have made us who we are, and society is bent on never letting us live that down.

According to Emerson, it should be exactly the opposite. We decide what we believe and then we act on it. That is what makes us who we are – not the other way around. We are called as mankind, as “man thinking” to continue to learn and, hopefully, change our opinions or beliefs based on that new knowledge. I mean, come on, once you learned that there was such a thing as a toaster strudel it would have been just flat out stupid to continue to limit yourself to pop-tarts, amiright?  A consistent man, a man who is completely understood, is one who is either stagnant and never-learning, or stubborn and too “foolish[ly] consisten[t]” to recognize better ideas than his own when he comes across them.

Emerson asserts that we should “Speak what [we] think now in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything [we] said today.” Basically, it’s totally okay to admit that you’re wrong because that means that you’re growing. Our inconsistent, confusing, ever-changing beliefs will always end up harmonious and in agreement “so they be each honest and natural in their hour.” So long as we continue to learn and actively choose for ourselves what we decide to believe, all of our inconsistencies will inevitably work together in the end. And, hopefully, you’re not the same person tomorrow as you are today.

 

Afterwards

cigarette-1545005

Sex.

 

Lying here.

 

Lighter. Flame. Smoke.

My head on his chest.

 

“I would be a good mom.”

 

“Hey. You don’t have to think about that right now. Gonna drive yourself crazy.”

 

A picture on the wall. Sailboat. Waves.

 

“I know, I’m just saying…

 

 

I would be.”

 

A storm? No land in view. Just grey. Metal.

 

“I know you would be.”

 

Inhale. Paper burning, crackling.

Smoke.

Out.

 

Lying here.

 

 

Trailer house ceiling, white and plastic.

Skinny brown beams running across it, trying to hold it up.

Trying to run away.

 

Running across my memory and I’m at my aunt’s house lying in bed with my sister.

Looking over at you and you’re him.

Snorting fast heartbeats and chattering lips into my brain.

 

You smell like him.

 

This smells like her.

 

It smells like something I can’t put into words. Never enough words for all the things that I feel.

Never enough for all the leftover memories that I don’t know what to do with.

 

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

 

Too much.

Explanation

I can’t explain the things that I feel.

A panic that has made its home in me. Like I’m not supposed to be here, like I’m running out of time. There’s so much I want to see, want to do. I’m terrified I won’t ever get to experience any of it. I have such a longing, a desperate and painful desire to just GO.

To DO.

To FEEL.

It’s like God built me with skin and bones and blood and a heart. And then, somewhere in the middle of all of it, He put this excitement in me. Built in, programmed in, burned deep inside of my soul, wetting my insides with blue flame, scorching my brain and my heart. This unquenchable, untreatable, untamable Adventure. This thing. This wonderful, hungry animal in my soul that is constantly clawing and struggling inside of me, twisting and contorting to fit the shape of my arteries, ripping through my veins, sending electric heat to every part of my body. I can hear it groan sometimes from inside the confines of my bending rib cage, barred in.

I don’t understand it. I know what it wants, but I don’t know how to give it what it needs. And the longer I go without feeding it, the more savage it becomes. Incomprehensible hunger. Gnawing and gnashing, grinding its teeth on my very being, on who I am, making my bones shake in their muscles.

The only time this yearning is at peace is when I am living. And I mean truly living. Fucking living. Whoever said that life is in the little moments was obviously not built with the Adventure inside of them. A lot of people aren’t.

It’s the difference between hopping the fence or turning back because the gate is locked. Between looking down that long, dark dirt road, having no idea where it leads, hearing nothing but the Texas woods, smelling only dirt and still deciding to walk into that uncertainty because that’s exactly what you’re looking for, isn’t it? In a life so predictably heart breaking. That is exactly what you are looking for – uncertainty, expectation, excitement, life… Because, really, what is life without the possibility of death.

It’s the difference between choosing that dusty road or choosing to turn around and walk back to your car because you would rather be safe than sorry. The difference between “fuck yes” and “fuck that.”

It is staring out into the clouds at 10,000 feet and, terrified, rolling out of the plane and into the blue. Spreading your arms wide. Your entire body, your entire being, your entire life filled with nothing but wind. And knowing that whatever happened to you, all the terrible things you’ve done in your life, every horrible thing that has happened to you up to this point, no matter how fucked up, was really all okay, all worth it somehow. Because in life’s strange way, all of those things ended up working perfectly together to get you right here in the middle of these clouds. Just another piece of the sky, another ray of sunlight.

I can’t explain the things that I feel.

I’m not searching for my time to shine, for my moment in the sun. I’m searching for my chance to BE the sun. To BE the wind.

To see and taste and feel all the things that they do.