The Squeeze

I'm losing ground, losing space, and losing touch. Suddenly, everything is more expensive than I expected and my time is being wittled down to splinters. I have no momentum to carry me through the future; no strength to leave the past behind. No will, no ambition, no determination. And I always lose interest in things too easily.

People always seem to catch a break when they need it. I could use that right now.

Waiting It Out

This is where you’re going to spend the rest of your life. Every breath you ever take will be here. Every passing thought, every missed opportunity, every broken heart; they will all be here. You aren’t leaving. Admit it, you’re as trapped as everyone else. There are ways out but you ignore them because it’s the best excuse you have. You won’t succeed here but you don’t want to fail anywhere else. You may as well be dead because you aren’t living any more. Days are just coming and going, time is just passing. You are just breathing out of habit. You don’t understand the difference between living and not dying. You don’t understand how long it’s been since you made an active choice to do either. So by all means, just keep breathing until you’re dying. Then you’ll understand the difference, when you no longer have the choice.

Sleepwalking

She can’t change the man laying next to her but she knows that all things, in their time, do change. So she waits, wide-eyed and hopeless in the dark, thinking of dreams that she might have some day. That they’re together. That he has time for her. That he wants her just as much as she wants him. She worries that she'll wake up and the dream will disappear, so she doesn’t sleep at all, not when she’s near him. She curls up closer to his warm body and as soon as they touch, he rolls away. There is a crack where the curtains meet, and she stares through it, waiting for the sun to rise.

Snowflakes

The old man trudged the bulk of his mass through the dry city streets, always moving slowly, his body stiff and cold with ancient icicles hanging from him. He looked around and saw the warmth of the world, and grinned. Challenged. He moved everywhere all at once, leaving enormous drifts of his life behind him. “Here I am,” he said, his breath chilling the air. “Don’t forget me.”

The Signs Of The Protest

There was so much history in that building and yet I recognized no one. Not the first premiers, or the first mayors, or the first anyone. Underneath the glass cases, there was so much to see, and yet sitting there by the entrance, I felt like we were the ones on display.

There was ample resolution yesterday. Advice that wasn't given but - luckily - taken. The conversation was enough for closure, if it comes to that, and I hope it doesn't. There was enough understanding there for both of us, even if I'm the only one that needed it.

There were protests yesterday at the Legislative building. At the first, there were people with huge signs that read Stop The North American Union and Canada Is Not For Sale. Another sign, one that I in particular enjoyed, read Our Home And Native Land, Not Theirs. The other protest didn't have any signs, except for the ones that I've been seeing for years.

The Breath Of The Water

She drowns peacefully, in my dream, while I watch, standing over her with my shoulders above the surface. I beg her to come up to where I am, I motion to her, I even try pulling her. But there she remains, her hair floating weightlessly around her. She doesn't believe in the water. She doesn't believe that what we feel will hurt her. She doesn't understand that she can't stay where she is, that it's dangerous, that she should trust me. Maybe she's right; I've earned no such privilege. There is nothing for her to drown in except for the water line that I drew above her head. Still, she sits, unbreathing and content, and still, I stand, the opposite. This is the difference in living.

Tipping

Yesterday afternoon, I noticed there was a plate on the counter in the men's washroom at work. I assumed that it was simply forgotten by someone, but since I never pass up the opportunity to be a smart ass, I put a small tent card on top of it that said 'tips' in big bright letters. So far, in less than a day, the little plate has accumulated $1.50 and a Disney Dollar!

Under Control

Every time I meet a new woman, I find it harder and harder not to notice small peculiarities that remind me of women I've been with before. In some cases, the resemblances may be good, but in most cases, they are not. Even the most subtle things end up occluding my mind until they're intolerable and I'm miserable. It's as though the bad memories haunt me like some unavoidable reincarnation destined to repeat itself until it is resolved. I just can't seem to figure out the resolution.

I try my best to keep an open mind, to understand that all people are going to be similar in some way or another, but in the end I always fail. In my mind, I see the faults that I couldn't dismiss before; things that can't be changed because they're not really faults at all. It's my perception that makes them faults, so all my relationships begin with an insurmountable deficit, even before I've even met the woman.

If only I could get this neurosis under control.

A Winding Trail

I think that people are all very similar. Somewhere along the path of our good intentions we get hopelessly lost, and by the time we realize we can’t go any further forward, the trail of breadcrumbs behind us has disappeared as well. There is no direction that we can take to undo our movements. We end up in a place that’s unfamiliar, uncomfortable, unhealthy. The best thing to do once you’ve arrived is to look around and hope that you haven’t been followed, which is hardly ever the case. We always share our poor decisions, like we’re drawn to the pyrrhic beauty of their impact. As if somehow being lost isn’t so bad if you’re not alone.

Laughing

I wake up from this dream with a firm understanding that love isn't guaranteed. My eyes adjust to the light from the alarm clock, its droning buzz begging for my attention. "Time to wake up," it screams in its own language, something that I've come to understand over the years. I ask for another ten minutes, so I can go back into the dream and change everything, but when I wake up next, nothing has. Love isn't guaranteed, not to anyone. It requires staggering coincidence and persistence, and this morning there was nobody next to me to help pretend otherwise. Except for the alarm clock, with its shrill voice cutting through the silence. I'm starting to believe it's laughing.

Mille Bornes!

One of my other blogs has hit a milestone! Well, it's not so much a milestone as it is a record number of unique hits. And contrary to what this entry's title might lead you to believe, it wasn't a thousand... or even an increment of a thousand. (433) But I remain impressed with myself, even though it's possible that these visitors are accidentally, yet continuously, reading it. I'm dancing with the idea of transferring that journal to its own domain name. I just have to think of something appropriate... and available...