Live.

I watched my best friend kick it into a gear nobody will ever know. He stepped on the gas, stiff, lead, heavy footed. He didn't care, he didn't know. He went, body loose, ready to go, comfortably, faintly, the only thing that held purpose was his foot, mashed on the gas.

"I'm ready"

I didn't understand then. I was scared, I just knew in that moment, I felt more prayer than I had in my entire life. Maybe he wanted to go back to the times when it was all in front. It's always in front, it's a story, maybe it ends, and how we look at it...life is not a comedy, it never ends with a laugh.

And that is the real tragedy.

The metal twisted, the wires sparked, tears fell, anyone who saw it will share that moment, it was real. When he tried to take it all away, he gave us more than we'll ever know.

Ninety miles an hour down memory lane, through the barriers of what we can't do, sirens told the tale of the end, we don't have the courage to do.

88 miles an hour may take you back in time, but 100 took me where I am now, I'll never forget, the jaws of life, the screams, the chaos. It was the assumed end of strife, it was madness, it was thoughtless. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.

He lived that night, they pried him from the steel, and a part of me died. A part of me wonders what it felt like to die, and live at the same time.

And life pushed me to that point, so many goddamn times, that maybe I was damned by God, or maybe I was only here because God, I damned.

But he lived. I'll never forget the talk.

Everyone wanted to hug, everyone wanted to kiss, but I heard only this,

"How fucking dare you?"

Selfish, without a hesitation, my mother called him selfish.

"This isn't about you, do you know what you just did to us?"

I knew what she meant. I knew how my heart dropped to the concrete, how much I knew I'd miss my best friend when I saw the emergency lights blinking, 50 feet down the cliff. I knew sadness, I knew the life I grew into, and how shattered it felt.

He lived, I'm glad he did, he's glad he did, but we are all still scarred. But me, some days, I just want to die.

I don't die, because I know how I felt that day, how much I'd miss him.

I do know how I couldn't understand, and still can't years later, when he put a rope around his neck, and ended it all.

Times were tough, and love was fleeting. I looked up to him, I wanted to hold his strength. But now all I hold is the tears of his mother. It's been years, and I know she cries, every goddamn day. EVERY. GOD. DAMNED. DAY.

Selfish.

She's so beautiful, she's so amazing, she was always so happy, so funny, she forced a smile.

She doesn't do that anymore.

She buried her son,she wonders what she could do, she prays to know everyday, to know what she did wrong, she believes in God some days, but know she'll never get the answer, "what did I do?"

But he wasn't thinking about her.

His heart was too broken, he couldn't think beyond the blindness of the disappointment, of the sadness, he could not escape.

Walk away, walk away from it all, walk into her arms, and cry.

I've thought about it for a decade, "Do I want to die, or do I want to know what it feels like to survive certain death?"

"Do I just miss the thrill of life?"

Sometimes I don't care. I have a father, somewhere,does he care?

I want to die, I burn life away, waiting for the day, that I become nothing, but why?

Why, in such a young age, do I want to die?

I don't live, I don't dare, I don't dare to love, and there, I lose it all.

But I'll never forget, no matter how dark the days, how I felt when he tried to take it all away. I'll certainly never forget, his mother's tears, and how haunted this beautiful woman will be for the rest of her life.

What did she do?

Why did she deserve to bury her son? Her only son. She loved him so GODDAMNED deeply.

I cry as I write, because I know she cried now, almost a decade later. In her world, he dies every. fucking. day.

Until the day she dies.

She doesn't deserve that.

I think about it, everyday for a decade. Some days all I want is to not wake.

But I know what the wake is like, when a son dies.

If one person feels the way I did that day, for that moment, for the rest of my life.

I'll go through the strife.

Because I may not change the world, and I may not fulfill my dreams,

But she worked too hard, she loved me too much,

For me to make her nightmares come true.

Live.

The Greek Tower

Red beams burnt 1:00 into Lukas' eyes; fate's silent alarm reverberated through his bones, deaf yawns and high-pitched buzzards in his ears faded into numbing buzzes...familiar to those who take trips outside the realm of Parental Guidance, but Lukas had not traveled in just over a dozen years. Greece was restless. Elders paced across nights, searching for ways to raise their children, who grew into nightmares for abandoned tourists, spending wasted bills and hours on unfamiliar phones canceling cards and numbers that create a stolen identity.

Outside Lukas' cottage, ancient tongues sprayed from the mouth of Hades as rip-tides battered Cape Tenaro. Bottles shattered against rock, messages within disintegrated into nothing more than wounded words. As Lukas emerged from the warmth of blanketed mounds, an irrepressible gust kicked in his front door, uninvited dirt and unwarranted papers rushed inside, knocking over Lukas' dresser, shattering mirrors and tearing through screens.

A path unveiled itself to Lukas, from the foot of his bed into the pit of the storm. He toed the line carefully barefoot, across splintered wood planks then course and battered stone stairs. Once in the yard, Lukas felt soothing moss under his heels, until he looked to the light-tower and witnessed torrents so fierce, the light within had extinguished. As caretaker, Lukas knew it was his duty and his alone to replace the light, so he solemnly climbed the summit he feared to be his grave.

Winds penetrated what he thought was impermeable stone, whistling in dull and ominous tone as the handrail creaked and conducted the chills of the dead surrounding the cape, swirling in foam and cast into the unknown of a frigid December night. Shards of broken windows sliced into Lukas' cold feet, causing feeling and blood to return.

Lukas fumbled in the dark, searching for tools to fix the light, as howls from the world swirled around the point and demanded attention. He finally viewed the clouds above, and for the first time saw the Mediterranean from his world without glass casing below. In the distance, fishing vessels toppled and collided, as changing waves swallowed lives and turned over from every corner of his fear, Death greeted Greece in this New Year.

This One's For YOU, Babe

Your face is gleaming brighter tonight than it has in some time. I know the mundane and seemingly repetitive days wear down perception, but tonight baby, you shine through the fog and my doubts. Tonight I want to let go of the world babe, I want to dance across it all. Luna, that birthmark drives an appetite for your lips, as the glow that bestows us is too glorious for permanence, and I know the time to act is winding down.

You were always too elegant for glass slippers, you deserve the comfort of silk mosses beneath bare feet, and tonight it's yours, anything you cast your gaze on is yours babe, it's always been that way, even if I don't express it as often as I should.

I know you'll follow me to the end, and disappear every morning before I wake, but if days are for anything, they're for creating distance that only warms the nights when you tap on my window. Doll, can't you see? It's your world, all of it, just a show and a gesture, anything to get your attention, all of us actors in whatever play you want us to perform.

I try to wipe away your tears, but some days they wipe away villages and move Earth, nothing my reserved touch can do to stop the flow.

They're all looking at you baby, at your slender dress and your twinkling eye, but you're only looking at me, and I'm not going to let go of you or that smile, because I know this dance will last forever.

Play, Damn You!

The essence of life is life itself. Wallowing is wasting, and waste will swallow, all of the fiber, until you are hollow. Stay hungry, but never starve.

To realize the game, it's purpose, you must first play. Let the winners and losers sort themselves out when the curtains close, and until they collapse, hand yourself over. Do not look through the hole, climb the fence, do not watch, dance on the field. You cannot win, you cannot lose if you never try, if you never pick up the ball, if you never lace up the glove. Someday there will be no end, if the game is played perfectly it will never end, it will passionately move forward, and both sides will pause, just for a moment to realize their part, and they will not oppose one another, but instead, they will breathe life into one another, and in this moment, rivals will pray that they can fight forever.

For the essence of life is life itself, there may be a beginning, and could be an end, but just like any game, it's what happens between that defines the time. Get on the stage, jump off the cliff, close your eyes and let go of the fear, of the doubt, let yourself feel. You will hear the air, it will brush against your skin, it soothes.Sometimes it is the unseen that fills you with life, that carries you. Let yourself love the game, and you will stop caring about winning or losing, you will know what it's like to run free.

Life is only a string of short moments, and at the end, everyone will talk about the winners, the performances, the failures and successes, this is why funerals are so dull. There are times to reflect on life, and mourn the lost, but the lost themselves are never present, and for good reason, it is a waste of time, of life. They have moved on to another game, players don't enjoy the press conference, it's a formality, it's fake, the questions are determined, the answers are expected, dull words of the heavenly lights, which caught a glimpse of heroes and heartbreak, of love and struggle, of grit, and everything beautiful that cannot be repeated and will never be captured in whole. Play damn you, get out there and leave your heart on the field. What are you saving it for?

Thoughts From The Mat

It's dirty, painful, bloody, exhausting, and honest. The big wigs steep the canvass in lies and grime, their empty promises leak from crooked smirks, but beyond the paper, exists some of the purest elements of human emotion, physical development, and determination seen by mankind.

For a year, I hammered my wrists into place. "Und machine, und machine" I'd whisper over and over as I buried hooks into leather, I pulled myself through an aching body, constantly reminding myself the body is only my mind's machine to control. "Und machine, und machine, und machine" a brainwashing experiment, two words deafened skinned and broken knuckles, splintered fingers and swollen joints. I wore my most important human tools into blunt objects, purposefully callousing soft spots and banging fists against immovable objects, collecting scar tissue as a hobby.

There aren't too many places in reality where you find grins stained with blood, where the injured beg to continue, no matter how evident their defeat. In reality, when you don't like the way someone smirks it's unacceptable to saw off their teeth, but I found a place where it is encouraged. You hunt for weakness, prey on it, pray for it, frantically searching and prodding, looking for the right time to hurt whatever is in front of you. Someone may walk in one minute screaming "The champ is here!" and get mopped off the floor the next.

David and Goliath, dog fights and chess matches, there's something for everyone. Some arrive with God, others with hate, and some just want to feed their babies, willing to sacrifice themselves to provide what someone a mile down the road throw in the trash. Some are bored and curious, searching for a moment to feel alive, playing cards with Death as the Devil deals. For others, it is all they have ever known, the last or only chance to avoid the terrors of society, cold bars and dark hearts, feeding on the weak, an initiation where dreams are stomped out.

It's honest. It's a dance floor stained with tears and blood, covered by dust, where greats and fakes both trod fully exposed. You hear the echoes of champions, and stories from those who shook their hands or fell from their punishment. It's the realist thing, I have ever experienced, and I will never walk away.

Solitude

There's a place unknown to most, and few seek, the comfortable breast of solitude; between the frosted mountains and mist laden hills of Nowhere Ohio, or Nowhere Wyoming, or Nowhere, Anywhere, something can be found or witnessed, if only for a moment. We change lives, change friends, and time, time we try to catch, or freeze, or understand, or change, but in this moment we let go. Lay down and roll in the grass, let go of describing the blades and dew and do, and be, and let everything around you be, as you only hope ultimately to be free.

The world will operate and turn and hurl into another time or another place, with or without you, so just for a moment let it run and stop the chewing or the spitting, let the irritation numb you, you will be soothed. In this moment do not tire, face it, live it, and do all your mind can to capture the time where vision is clear.

Drop the "I" or the "me" for one instant, and let a string of the ball unwind in your palm, some things cannot be described, regardless of the editor or deadline, the impression or message, be present in solitude. So many fears of loneliness, so many tries and cries for attention or witness to see what cannot be shared, only filtered through the fogged eyes of a restless heart.

There are events and actions, dreams and the like not meant for others, nor mentioned. The door is not infinitely open, so do not welcome others in, do not ask them to join, their presence will carry away the purity of the moment, so grasp and hold on as long as you can. It does not need to be written or understood or defined, this is absolute failure of a writer and redemption of a mind. We cry for something to reach down and touch us, to caress what ails us, but we run, hoping to find a commonality or a shelter from the unbeknownst workings of the very deity we beg to see. When the veil is lifted partially, we cower and hide, then peak our heads out again, hoping for the sensation to return.

Know this moment and bask in it's oddity, in the peculiar feeling of being alone, and bravely greet the message you were only meant to receive. Every day we ignore these moments, and try to explain them, or remember them, only to find they have moved on without us, but know that it was there in time, and so were you, then look ahead with wonder and patience for the next breath of life to pass through.

The Day The Bombs Fell

I remember when the bombs fell...in one moment everything changed, not for the better, but for the immediate. Some ran, some fought, died, hid, cried, some turned into rats with chatter or rats that scatter. Before all of these things came to be, there was the dust. Cement collapsed onto and through itself with enough force to cripple lungs within, Earth jumped from it's seat and fled; I witnessed mankind's shared consciousness for the first time within the gasp of a city.

God's tears made the moment to sink in. Heavy rain flooded low-lying areas, downhill alleys carried bloody streams over the feet of people who could only wonder who they just lost.

There was no lightening or thunder to follow the cloud, only changing winds. The gusts took many lives, but everyone knew they'd have to brave it. They weren't heroes, they were just numbers, ones that didn't get called, but sat in line with their neighbors, waiting for fate to be handed to them.

I remember the feeling of hopelessness, hunger, discomfort, and fear. Real fear, not a startled moment, but the kind of fear that can drive a man mad, the type of fear someone can only know when it finally occurs to them, death will knock on their door.

Before The Reaper, before the self-confrontation, and the mental-slide show, the horrors of Society's Mankind, and it's violent decay...I remember the day the bombs fell. I relive every moment before the blast constantly in my mind. I wish that minute never happened, but I recognize it's reality, as punishment deserved, punishment for the sin I'd had made if the bombs never dropped; I know, spoiled in the routine of life, I wouldn't have appreciated the moment as much as it deserved.

I will chase that peaceful moment, in my sleep, through the day, to keep my legs under me, and my mind yearning for the time after, the bombs didn't fall.