The Musings of My Mind

Month: September, 2014


After she fell asleep, I stared at the knife for what seemed like a really long time, though I’m sure it was just a few minutes. It called out to me in a low, cool whisper and I pretended to ignore it. I got up to wash the dishes, I took a shower, I watched the baby sleep, but through all of those things, I could hear the knife calling my name. It wanted to feel my insides and watch my blood and guts ooze out in a conglomerate of expression. Somehow, it knew that my mind was an amalgamation of hate and curiosity, so it called to me. For weeks, I didn’t adhere to it’s beckoning call. For weeks, I allowed myself to slump through my daily life of pretending to love my kid who seemed to cry even when he was happy, my mediocre job, and the frigid woman I’ve been with for the last 27 years. How tiring it is to wake up and live the same day over and over again. You never realize it’s actually happening until you notice that people begin to know your every move, every next step and the one after that. I was on the train some time ago and a poor excuse of a woman said to me, “I like your tie today. It’s always that same blue one with the white stripes, but today it’s yellow. Very nice.” I’d never seen her a day in my life, but apparently, she had seen me. She’d seen me enough to know when one little thing about my appearance changed. What’s worse is that the only reason my tie was different that morning is because I was lathering jelly on some toast and somehow, it got all over my tie. So, I changed. That was the morning, though. Once the sloppy, purple glob flew vigorously onto my tie, I rolled my eyes, and muttered to myself that I hated my life. It’s just jelly, I know, but you’d have to be me to understand. Then, the sight of the knife caught my eye. In a way, it reminded me of myself; wasted potential. Here I am with this powerful tool, this object capable of literally taking someone’s life, and I’m reducing it’s grandeur, it’s overwhelming capabilities just to put jelly on my fucking toast. That whole day, I thought about allowing it to roam freely through me in order for it to do exactly what it was designed to do. I danced around the idea relentlessly, doing menial house chores and work duties all while imagining the pain that would course through my being upon the insertion of that knife. Now, as I stare at the gleaming silver, edges sharp to a fault, I’ve decided to answer it’s call.

I picked up the knife and licked it. I licked a bit too close to the edge and nicked my tongue, but it felt sweet. It tasted like relief, and instantly, I knew I wanted more. I needed to feel more. I cut my tongue again, but deeper, and within seconds, blood pooled on my tongue, spilling out of my mouth with fury, and I let it. I looked into the mirror and smiled back at my blood-stained, toothy reflection. Heavy droplets of blood fell into the sink and just looking at it made my knees feeble. My heart curled at the sight of the slick, white porcelain become tainted by my sin. My grievances were all over the place, but it made me feel alive. I tingled all over my body, goosebumps rose on my arms, and then I cut my wrist. At first, not too deep. Admittedly, I was afraid. Although the pain was elaborate in it’s pleasure, I wasn’t prepared to end my little tirade and I wasn’t sure which direction to cut safely, so precautions were taken. But before I could restrain my excitement, I got carried away. Before I knew it, the knife had seduced my will and readiness. My right arm was slashed extensively, giving way to raw skin, and of course, a plethora of blood. It was eagerly pouring out of me as if it had felt trapped and imprisoned within the confines of my skin. If so, we were both breaking free.

Looking into the mirror, I felt like a masterpiece. I was quite pleased with what I’d done so far, but the knife still seemed to thirst for more. My hand held it steadily and tightly as I put it to my abdomen. It wanted to dig deeper, further its’ prodding of my body, but I hesitated. I questioned what the next step would be because surely, this could be it.

“Don’t be a pussy. Put it to your heart.”

Having been startled, I dropped the attempted murder weapon and swiveled around quickly to see my wife standing in the doorway with an unamused facial expression. I watched as her eyes roamed the entirety of my body, as well as the the blood spatter that had accumulated in various places. I tried to read her, but I couldn’t. In all honesty, she looked a bit bored. Almost as if this was a movie she had seen one too many times. I expected her to turn on her heel and remind me to shut the bathroom light off when I was finished, but instead, she bent down to pick up the knife. In a slow motion brimming with confidence and familiarity, she brought the knife directly to my heart and little by little, she pushed it in. At that moment, I stopped breathing. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I began to imagine what dying would feel like, I tried to make peace with it, but I was afraid. Her serenity was daunting.

“Are you scared?”

“No.” I lied.


Finally, she removed the knife from my chest and stared at me intently. It dangled from her finger tips effortlessly, making me wonder which of the two was more dangerous; her or the knife? I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me. Stepping closer to me, my wife put her lips to mine, the knife to her throat, and when I pulled away, she collapsed. Blood spurted out of her throat in a way that made my excursion seem childish. I ogled her lifeless body, eyes wide open, mind wide shut, and I envied her. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but I avoided my eyes. I couldn’t face the embarrassment I felt in failing at suicide. I sighed deeply and turned on the shower to clean myself off as my wife lied on the floor soaked in a puddle of her own blood. Right then, the baby let out a piercing cry as if he knew that his entire life just plummeted into a heaping pit of flames before it could even begin. At least one of us got away.




Do you know what your own voice sounds like? It dawned on me today that I haven’t heard my own voice in a very long time. Maybe I’ve never heard it at all. If I did, did I recognize it? The only time the world makes sense to me is when I’m listening to music. The crooning of someone else’s soft, calm voice centers me. They fill in the void I constantly feel and they speak my thoughts aloud. But I’m too dependent on that. Now I’m questioning if my undying love for music is genuine or if it’s because I count on it to help me in every way possible. It’s probably a bit of both. For most of my life, I’ve been alone, and for most of my life, I’ve tried to get someone to place into my life so I wouldn’t be (&not just romantic interests). When I’m alone, I think too much. I analyze, I scrutinize, and well, I’m not always so nice to myself. It’s like I’m afraid of myself. What’s truly in my heart? What do I really want? I’ve spent years trying to figure those things out the wrong way, and I’m not saying that I’m gonna get my shit together now, but I’ve recognized my faults.

Like yesterday, I was sitting on top of my car, staring off into the glorious distance of one of favorite spots. Mumford and Sons blasted in my ears, and at that moment, everything made sense. Everything felt okay. Most days, I know that regardless, but music gives me that extra push. The encouraging boost that gets me through the day.

Greg Laswell said it best in his song And Then You: “How my thoughts they spin me ’round. How my thoughts they let me down.”
Like, yes! My thoughts need a leash or a nozzle or…both.

Someone told me recently that I expect too much from people. And I do. I expect more from people than I do myself because if someone else lets me down, I have the choice of continuing a relationship with that person. If I let myself down, I’m stuck with me. There’s no going back, there’s no running away. I would have to face myself, and I’m my toughest critic. I’m not sure I’d know how to deal again. Yet, by not dealing, I’m alienating my own self. Im missing out on who I am just because I think I already have myself figured out, but I don’t. I’m forcing myself onto other people and that’s not healthy. I’m allowing myself to be so open to people who possibly aren’t any good for me and could destroy me just so I don’t risk running into…me. Seeing myself. It’s just easier if someone else does it.

Hmm. Progress is being made here. Admitting is the first step right?

Good day, readers.


I lit a cigarette and let it burn.

I watched as it slowly fell apart..

Ripped at the seams and broke away.

Kind of like I do.
Kind of like we did.

The ashes flew into the wind,

Going willingly, and I watched it timidly.

I envied it’s presence,

This dangerous thing so eager to kill

So eager to be, but okay with me…

Letting it wilt away for my selfish pleasure.

Oh, the sacrifice.

The beauty in the sacrifice.

There was an understanding that day

That I’ve come to understand quite well.

If I get to kill you, you get to kill me too.

Maybe all at once, maybe over time.

But it seems that’s the way it goes when you

Love something so…


With each step bringing him closer to the door that held his secrets between the hinges and on the other side of it, hesitance jumped out of the shadows and attacked him. Fear inserted itself into his body, and he turned back to his car to contemplate a swift return to the city in hopes of forgetting the whole thing, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t if he tried because the dark thoughts that’ve trampled him since the incident would barely even let him sleep. Perhaps if he’d been the only person to witness his accident, the paranoia wouldn’t be so malicious in it’s intent to absolve him of clear and concise thoughts. Surely, he wouldn’t be forced to grovel and weep his way out of something that would stay within him until it was he who was a lifeless corpse and not an innocent bystander. But in fact, someone had seen. Images of her eyes, wide and glossy with tears pooling from disbelief and disgust, flashed before his eyes. They screamed loudly, making him squirm and gag for even he couldn’t believe that he was capable of such carelessness. Such disregard for life itself. He took one last glance at the door, shimmering in it’s olive green glory with a wiry brown wreath celebrating the joy of Thanksgiving. He gazed at the happy turkey and the little pilgrims that seemed to be dancing around it, all their faces clad with frozen smiles and black stitched eyes that held not a single emotion or thought. He envied them. He envied the fact that they weren’t burdened with the responsibility of existing. As he turned his back to the house and began to walk away from it, suddenly, the door opened. A bright light cast itself out from the inside and a shadowy figure stood in the doorway.

“I’ve been watching you this whole time.”

Her was voice scratchy and small. She sounded afraid, yet determined to hold her ground. He turned to face her and walked closer. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, and lips slightly chapped. She fiddled with the red scarf that was bound tightly around her neck. She seemed nervous. He studied her posture, her frame, build, and height. He took a quick look around the area and noticed that they were the only two people out. He could kill her at this very instant by choking and strangling her to death. He imagined his dry hands wrapped her neck, pushing her back into the house and up against the wall as he stared deeply into her eyes while she took her lasts breaths. Except he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Someone was always watching. He knew that now.

“Listen, I just…” He sighed. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” She seemed angry.

“Jules, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry it happened and I’m sorry you had to see it. It was all…really fucked up. It was an accident and I hate myself for it. You have to believe that. I don’t know how I’m going to live the rest of my life with this.”

“At least you’ll have a life to live. Did you ever think about that?”

He lowered his head and said, “everyday since the accident.”

They stood in silence feeling their lives exploding around them. Everything seemed to be at a standstill. Simply waiting for one of them to take their next breath, speak their next word. One, drunk night had taken a wrong turn and there was no going back. He could see the fear in her eyes and hear her heart beating too fast. He attempted to reach his hand out to her but she took a step back and scowled.

“You’re a…you…” Tears began to fall freely, but she wiped them away. “You killed him!”

“I know what I did. I’ll never be able to forget it.”

“You asshole! You killed him and you left him!”

“Shhhh! Don’t…you can’t shout things like that. Maybe we can just go inside and talk about this?”

All of a sudden, her face fell. Laughter trickled out of her little by little and then all at once. Her face still wet with tears, she laughed so hard she had to hold on to the doorway to balance herself. Finally, she looked up at him and shook her head slowly.

“I can’t believe you thought I would actually let you get away with this. The police are on their way.”

And with that, she kissed him on the cheek, walked into her home and closed the door. She left him on her stoop, banging on the door violently and awaited the sound of piercing sirens that’s should’ve been heard that night.



I miss the days when I was brave. The days when impulse and random occurrences ruled my life. Adrenaline raced through my veins, and let me just say, I was having a blast. During a conversation with a friend today, she shared that she wished it was the 70’s so she could really enjoy her life. I agreed and said that I would also love that because then, I could really enjoy my life, do what I want and truly not care. Then I wondered..when did I stop living? And more importantly, why do I feel like I can’t? I’m 21 years old, I’m healthy, I don’t have any major attachments. Why do I feel like my whole life has to be calculated and why the hell do I feel this pressure to be so settled right now? I don’t know when I got so scared. I’ve always been worrisome, but today I truly realized just how much my worrying interrupts the natural process of my life. Things should be fun, right? I know they can’t be all the time, but most of the time they should be.

“You gotta let it go. Please let it go.” The Gospel Whiskey Runners- A Stone’s Throw Away

Right as I finished typing that last sentence, that exact line played. I promise that just happened.

Here’s to good&bad decisions that make life as interesting as it is. And to stepping out of our comfort zones….And to not getting too stuck on life’s hang ups..because being happy feels really good.



“My parents enrolled me into a school for special kids, but I don’t like it. They all act like victims.”

“Well aren’t they? They weren’t asked to be born that way.”

Sighs deeply. “None of us ask for anything. No offense, but your ears are pretty big and you have terrible skin. I’m almost positive you didn’t beg for that and I’m sure you received your fair share of sandbox name-calling. But you live and breathe. Our culture has a weird obsession with victimizing people and I don’t get it. I actually like to think that I’m lucky. Sure, my eyes are funny but they work in a way that was said to be impossible by five doctors. I can walk and talk and breathe and my brain functions the way yours does. I want to go to a regular school with regular people, I’m not disabled. I don’t need people to read and write things for me, I don’t need people pitying me. You want to pity someone? Go pity that poor fool on Bleeker St. who thinks the angels give him handwritten notes from God. My parents are afraid that I’ll be teased, but my grandpa told me that almost anything can be solved with my fists. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

Laughs. “What makes you sad about your eyes?”

“Well…all the pretty ladies on TV and all the Disney princesses are so shiny and perfect-looking. They don’t ever show what different people look like.” She casts her eyes down and frowns.

“Why does that make you sad?”

“Because!” Eyes wide with enthusiasm and disbelief, she says, “I’m only 10 and I’m already self-conscious. How am I supposed to be happy when the world just keeps telling me there’s something wrong with me?”

“Who else do you think feels this way?”

“Minorities.” Shrugs. “I watch the news.”

“You seem to be well informed for a 10 year old.”

She speaks softly. “When people treat you like you’re stupid, you tend to spend your time trying to prove them wrong.”

Skinny Love


I’ve been trying to write this for a couple of weeks.

In each half-written post, I explain my inability to produce anything worth reading, how my mind has been completely blocked, and how I’ve abandoned my blog and the followers who enjoy reading my work. The problem lies in executing this apologetic post.

I can’t make it sound like…me. Like it isn’t forced. Because it isn’t, I swear. I really do feel terrible for giving up, but it just sounds like I’m trying to be witty and just…no. So I’ll just say this:

New and old followers, I’m not a piece of shit. I promise. Life has just thrown me slightly (majorly) off balance and instead of pouring my energy writing and creating amazing works of art, I’ve just been watching a lot of HBO and riding in cars with boys. Okay, not the last part. Just work and television. I’ve been working on two stories that’ve actually captured my interest and thy actually go further (farther?) than a paragraph and a half in length. I’m taking my time with the both of them, but I’m glad I’m at least working on something. Exercising my brain/talents and all that.

I certainly have missed WP though. I can’t believe it’s been a month and four days since my last post. Which was about my cat -.-
If that doesn’t just spell out my sheer piece of shitness, I’m not sure what will.

My WP app has been lounging in the corner of my phone, glowering brightly and not withholding the judgements only I can hear. It whispers loudly in the middle of the night and calls me a fake writer. It mocks me with notifications of new followers and then tells me these new followers will soon realize their mistake.

Seriously though, I’ve felt crappy for not keeping up with this. I suppose not crappy enough to do anything about it right? Not anymore though. I miss the interaction. I miss reading your posts, the community, the support. I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere and helping others feel that way too. I’ve filled my phone with incomplete entries in my Notes, and I’m just going to put them all together. They’re all about the same thing so it’ll make sense in a weirdly interesting way, I’m sure.

I suppose I’ve to thank a friend for inspiring me. That and myself for rummaging through my page, surprising myself with certain works, and reading posts from you guys. It filled me with sadness to be missing from this world.

I have a lot of catching up to do, but it feels nice. Let’s hope I’m not doing this again in another few months…
Im kidding.


There’s something quite grand about your presence. You aren’t, and have never been, a beacon of ebullience, nor do you pretend to be. You’re actually quite somber. Your humor a tad dark, your lips withholding truths that might possibly set you free. Your heart is a pit of a glowing blaze, and your face is simply beautiful. You’re striking. You’ve struck me and I can’t say I’m all too pleased about that. You’re confusing in all your odd glory, but I can’t stop myself from drinking you in. Or, breathing in the sweaty scent that rests itself upon your neck, I can’t not want to lick you. Taste you.

I’ve been working on the art of restraint. I’ve been leaning toward being observant and understanding of your actions rather than spewing misguided emotions based on the falsehood of my tormented mind, and I can’t say I’m completely understanding of current happenings&unfortunate series of events. Your absence has moved me. It has left me stumped and my confidence is drowning in a puddle of murky water on the side of your heart. I hate what you’ve turned me into. Except it’s not really you, is it? I have come to realize that I do not know what love is. I do not know what it means to love, but my desires and my wants and the little things that feel like needs are pulling my sleeves and whimpering. They’re telling me that I feel strong things, but I won’t call it love.

I’ll be wise and leave the accumulation of the letters e, o, v, and l alone.

I’ve decided to lock them up in the rusty, wooden shed. I’m hoping the letters will collect dust, become obsolete and immediately removed from my word bank. For the time being, at least. Even still, I can’t help but to wonder how you’re choosing to use your time. I wonder if you wonder about me the way I wonder about you. Or if you’re wondering if I’m wondering about you. In case you’ve wondered, the answer is yes. If you haven’t wondered, the answer is no. The question is “how?” 10 steps forward, 20 steps back. The only thing is that my mind hasn’t retreated. It’s hasn’t followed suit and I’m still at step 9.

How we destruct ourselves in the flight of time.

I long to feel your lips pressed against mine. Your clammy hands exploring me, your laugh in my ear. I long to feel your warmth and the closeness we shared..the togetherness in individuality wrapped in sacred unity. Sweet memories for a harsh reality. It’s hard to forget. Have you forgotten? If only to take back words I thought were my allies, if only to retrieve time we believed belonged to us.

If only…to.
Make you return.
Without making you return.