Describing Depression

When you are sad, at least you are feeling. I never thought I would be jealous of a sad person, but you wouldn’t understand. Feelings are transient. They come and we grasp them in our bodies, we hear them pounding in our hearts and banging against our brains, but we know they are temporary. Eventually, they will pass and new ones shall enter in a tapestry of new colors in a changing, shifting pattern. Sadness, in a way, is a passenger on a train simply waiting to leave and give his seat to Elated or Disgruntled.

But feeling nothing, becoming an empty train chugging down the tracks, is endless. It feels as if there is no beginning or ending, merely an infinite loop.

Infinity is said to be beautiful. You can feel infinite and it means that you are boundless and alive, electrical currents of impossibility pulsing against each other. But this is the endlessness of time, where each second takes eight years and that single second puts down those eight years of ache, setting them right upon your shoulders.

You wait for the emptiness to pass, but it is not a train car passenger. It is a resident, settled in. He sits upon your hands, your feet, your head, your chest. You become a captive to yourself, watching as the landscape passes by. Each blade of grass blends into the previous and the merge into a single entity that blurs time in that dreaded continuity. There are horror films about being trapped in a cage, stuck in a basement, but there is never something as dark and insidious as being stuck in yourself, imprisoned and forced to watch you waste your own life.

Added to it all, weights are tied to your fingers and the edges of your lips, and they pull you further and further down into yourself. You sink so far into yourself then that even if you could move, could cry for help in a real voice, the plea would not, could not, connect.

Within yourself, there is only the darkest reflection of yourself as company. They are not good company.


Experimental Writing #3

UV radiation travels hundreds of millions of miles and kisses me.

He is the only thing that kisses me. He caresses my virgin lips, heating them at mid-day. He dances upon my freckled skin, he tickles my untied hair, he dyes me in his orange hues.

My mom says he’s no good for me. She insists upon sunblock, a shield between my body and his, a protective barrier I do not desire. She gives me hats, she offers me shawls, slips, pieces of flimsy fabric that prevent him from heating me to my inner organs

I love him.

The sun leaves in the winter, taking him with it. They travel to a different part of the world yearly and I,  I wait. As the summer comes, I run to his embrace, each day spent suffused in him.

I throw caution to the wind. I ignore the words of others.

I am young. Sunburns mean nothing. Blisters mean nothing. Cancer means…

It means something, but I won’t get it! Because I am young and he loves me and the future is mine to grab. Love triumphs all, after all, or something like that.

Me and UV, we are close at thirteen. The earth warms and he becomes more present and we are happy. Happy.

Together forever, with him breathing upon my shoulders every time I step outdoors, every time the curtain is shifted, every time the outside steps in.

Together. Forever.

Imperfect Musings

I have an imperfection.

It is an unspoken belief- don’t ask, don’t tell. Outside, they can be covered in clothing. Inside, I look into the mirror. Bare. Uncovered. Unclothed. Naked.And, despite having a physically capable body, somehow I also have at least one imperfection.

(In fact) I have many.

I have a scar on my chin from a childhood spent on ice. I have holes punctured into my teeth from processed sugars. I have a toenail that never grew in properly after years of stumbling through the dark with it as my guide. I have uneven tanlines from years of stomping out in shorts during the summer months, wearing bracelets and anklets and tie dyed t-shirts.

I carry imperfection.

It is in my posture, the slouch I have perfected as a craft from decades of wearing my own body. It is in my gait, which leans heavily on my heels. It is in my feet, with my right one often dragging slightly behind my left due to self-inflicted pains. When I’m anxious, the skin on my foot is peeled, revealing the tender red beneath the epidermis, the layer that blooms upon contact with air. I wear it all.

I am imperfection.

It is every year of my life because there is no “perfection” to living. Because there is no way to exist that creates an unmarred body, an unscarred person. Because I am the amalgamation of these experiences that created these imperfect pieces, and, as they say, you are what you do. If the results are imperfect, then, by default, so am I.

Yet, as I age, as these imperfect pieces accrue, I move on. Write a statement on a piece of paper- “I love myself.” Swallow it whole, feel the ink bleed into my body, the self love penetrating my own core.

I am imperfect and I am fine.

You Love Her

You love her.

You are sixteen, you are gay, and you love her.

She is older, older by one year, three months and six days. She wears that difference in experience, in laugh lines, in the way her back arches as she walks, and the way that her calloused fingers work through hand lotion. You love her and you have never known a world without her.

To you, she is language. Not poetry, not a book, but language itself. English alone could not describe her. You know- you’ve tried. After all, you love her.

You spend summer together, just “girls nights” with Netflix and ice cream. You watch horror films and hold her hand beneath the blankets, her rough fingers cool and sweet beneath your own. As the handsome hero attempts to save the helpless heroine from an inevitable murder, you imagine turning and kissing her cheek.

Casually.So casually it could be a mistake. So casually that veiled feelings remain tucked away. You can almost feel her smooth cheek against your lips, the coolness of her skin to your warm wet lips.

But your imagination is not sweet, not coconut scented like her face wash. After the imagined moment, she turns in disgust and you know she is gone.

The scene ends. The movie continues and you shift your hand to reach for some popcorn. The movement is awkward, the hand is not your dominant hand, but you stuff your mouth with the salty stuff and continue to do so until the bowl is empty and the movie is over.

Because you love her.


I Want

I want to say I love myself.

I want to stake a claim upon a piece of territory as yet untouched.

I want to issue the next grand proclamation, the next “man on the moon” statement, about and for myself.

But I won’t.


To say I love myself is to say I love all I am, all I’ve been and all I will become.

It is a promise between who I am now and who I’ll ever be. And I… I cannot keep promises.


I think myself a liar. The words that pass my lips often become false as they leave my tongue. As they fall from my lips and reverberate amongst the walls and then reach an ear, they become stained in falsehoods.

I promise I’ll write.

I promise I’ll wait.

I promise I won’t touch.

I promise…

It is hard to say why I am this way. My prescription says it is a side effect of my natural hopelessness, yet I feel as if it is a side effect of myself. Because I am incapable of saying “I love myself,” I cannot speak truths. Because I cannot speak truths, I cannot claim to love myself without it being false. Because.

There is no answer. Right, wrong, black and white.

When someone asks if I want tea or coffee, I do not say. I cannot say. When they ask, I feel as if they are living in a yes, no world while I am living in a gray area. I want both, yet I want neither.

The moment often passes, they pass, and still, I am in that limbo where every guarantee is false.

They never encompass the whole truth.

She is a River

She is a river with emotional fluidity.

An estuary, connecting the uncertain tides of life to the stream of consciousness.


They call her inconstant. Faithless and lost. Sometimes manipulative. Often hollow.


Day one, the tide is low and her feet dance upon the shores, head held above the sky. She is high, like the lost balloon at a fair. Euphoric, independent. A reunion between her and herself.

Yet, day thirty-one, the tide is swelling and her round face is sinking beneath the flat edges of the salty ocean. She is low, like the anchor of a ship. Despondent, dependent. A parting between her and herself.

The human body is said to be buoyant. Its density is less than water, salty or fresh, which makes the vessel float. Yet she is a scientific anomaly. Never one nor the other, never floating nor sinking, Schrodinger’s Cat as a twenty-three year old woman.





On day fifty-seven, she is emptied, drought in an area thirsting. She dates a man, with the hopes that he will fertilize her shores and bring vibrancy back onto her lands. She then dates a woman, with the hopes that she will carry buckets of water upon her shoulders and methodically renew the deadened stream.

She dates herself, her hand, her razor.

And once again, she flows.

Charles Lamb Imitation Essay

I have no mind.-

Mistake me not, reader- nor imagine that I am by nature destitute of that sacred inner sanctum, that illusive concept of self, and (artistically speaking) that gray matter of personality contained within my physical form. Better to not be carried by my family from suckled infancy to protected adolescence.- I am, I believe, rather basically than abundantly provided with those simple human conduits; and I feel no inclination to dispose myself to envy the brilliant for their plenty, nor the toddler for their rudimentary, in those genuine personhood factories- those indispensable thought-creators.

Neither have I brought upon myself, or done anything in the slightest to incur, with medical accident, that unfortunate hidden disfigurement, which constrains one to a bed drawing existence from a sanatorium machine to feel life, filtered, through that article. I was never, blessedly, down on my knees upon my carpet thankfully, nor if I read my destiny in my first world country right, is it close to within my calculated future that I ever should be.

When, therefore, I lay claim that I have no mind, you will understand me to mean- for study. To say that this person had not turned to jellified goo at the text of abstract concepts, would be a cruel self-libel. Sentence constructs never fail to move it somewhat. So does long division. But they were built to be written upon blackboards by a teacher (written with thick markers that make you light-headed) within a school- a school that impresses fundamental skills for working -merely the skills- should I name the school?-, once the artistry of the comma so impressed itself upon my very being, small child I then was, that my innocent self placed a comma of passion every which way, having not gained the sensibility of where commas belong, and it was only much much later, some time towards the end of my middle school years, that I discovered with some chagrin my improper usage that colored my stories in a juttering manner.

I feel that I am, to a degree, mentally inclined to study. But emotionally, I feel no proclivity to that pastime that indeed fails to pass the time- truly, I am incapable of remaining seated for an extended period of time observing the black ink upon a textbook page. I have begun practicing, however, since middle school and have since attempted to hone the skills to focus upon a single page of essay rules, an illiterate gazing upon a lost language. When I employ my grand interpretations of the glyphs, I am told, to my utter dismay, that I have yet to grasp the proper structuring of formality, my essay being several hundreds of degrees away from what is considered acceptable.

I am not oblivious, let it be known, for once; I do immensely acknowledge my singularly underdeveloped skill of study within my mind. For sitting upon a chaise-longue, the television set quietly rumbling and my dearest Friend A methodically turning the pages of a text, I find that my mind does wander and what was originally to be a thought train on french verb conjugations quickly derails itself to the question of what the french word for gecko would be. As I later discover, it is “le gecko,” an uninspiring answer to a prevalent question within the high school walls.

Yet, it is to my consternation that school study is not the same as these fluid questions and ephemeral fancies. I, my own personal turing machine, click in ones and twos, not within those hallowed– dare I say blesséd -chainlink fences, but rather, instead, within the protected fortress of a Snapple cap fact.