Annar in the Inbetweens

Sometimes, you’ve got to lose everything to see what you’ve got sittin’ in front of you. It was all smoke ‘n’ mirrors for as far as I could see, back in my mind; back in my memories. It’s all felt like distractions ‘n’ tricks coated with enemies and newfound failures tinged with disappointment in this empire I thought I built, I thought I owned—but I’ve been fooled. You’ve probably been fooled too. We don’t own a thing; we barely own ourselves. This truth aches me as much as it sets me free.

Be still, be still, be still—
so I can sing and show you how
to shake off that despair
and dream of flames
and touch the things
that soon will turn to dust.

So you can hear the Gods scream:
“We need to leave and let this die!”




 

Still nights,
            when the howling of the wind and the
            barking of the dogs and the
            broken air and broken time are cut up by the creaking fan.

           when the ghosts begin to touch your face and you
           can’t digest the blood you’ve shed,
           while the bastard dogs keep howling,
           and you’re sitting up gawking at the
           broken air and broken time dripping from the creaking fan.











 

Walking in the direction
of the cigarette smoke,
that’s how we’ll get home—
like the dragging fog
exhaled from our lips,
that moves like ghosts;
that moves like us;
like holy gems
and prodigal sons,
with no moon,
no moss.

“We are,” I said
among the ocean
that beats
to the rhythm of my frantic mind
              “unsteady and fluid and fading.”

blue lips touching; hands clutching hands

we will die right here,
together,
   but alone—
unsuspecting, uncertain, unloved.

We will die like this,
in darkness.

I put away the music, I put away the tracks, the novels, short stories, the poems that triggered, triggered, triggered those thoughts that chained me, but set me free with a bang, bang, bang! I stepped away from literature, from practice, from exploration. I placed both feet firmly on the ground and refused to lift my head above the horizon. Why? Fear of madness. Was it worth it? No, not at all. The madness still creeps, still flows in my blood, still spills through my teeth when I speak. It still begs to be heard, and it is (heard). The sound within me boasts like a beast, louder, pushes harder, has shrilling screams and convulsive shudders. I hear it, I hear you, I am you. Insanity, you plague me; insanity, you can’t be shut or silenced or hidden. So, I take back my books, I turn on the music, and I let it shoot, shoot, shoot up into my mind. Is it worth it?

When someone loves you, there isn’t a dangerous place in the world, there isn’t a dangerous place in your mind.

As a writer, the hardest thing you will experience is being edited to shreds.
As a writer, the hardest thing I have had to do is be edited to shreds by someone I admire in talent, intelligence, and romantically. But this is how we will both conquer this world and every other world: mercilessly in love with the art and with each other.

        The deep end, I tell you, is not as cold and lonesome as you’d imagine while your feet are rooted in the dark sands of the shore—staring at the untrodden waters of the inbetweens. Once you get there—and it knows you—once you’re trapped and there’s no where else to go; our body accepts it’s fate, and the cold learns to swim through your blood. This is when you adapt; the insanity that plagues you becomes your greatest companion—your most trustworthy friend—and at that precise moment, that is when you hit the perfect medium between existing and dying, between being a goddamn angel and being this nefarious raven from hell. This is the moment when your thoughts sit on the delicate trapeze of brilliance and mental despair. You are part of the horizon of this sea—the deep end, the surface tension between submergence and the air—leg muscles contracting as you adopt the motion de la mer*; head above water, gawking at the infinite abyss. Existence is still, and that is when Everything reveals itself.
          Don’t drown (refuse it), and don’t get out—one will kill you, and the other will drive you into dysfunctional insanity. You’re in the deep end now, and the cold that runs through your veins, and the ghosts that have shown themselves will hold your hand and drift you to what it means to Be, to Be.

                         “And you begin to accept your defeats
                        With your head up and your eyes open
               With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,”

In panic, I recite poems to myself in my head to avoid facing the situation. When we left each other, my mind looped “You Learn” by Jorge Borges. When I came across this phrase, my mind would stutter and repeat and repeat and repeat. I wanted to be those words, I wanted to understand them. I held my chin high, though gentle tears dripped from my lashes. I kept my lips red, I resisted your touch, I resisted your kiss— I placed four fingers over each of your eyes as you sat on my bed and said, I really, really loved you, but now it is time for us to say goodbye. So, I said goodbye. The rest of the evening, I tried to understand what it is like to lose your love with the grace of a woman. I spoke to myself, “What do I do now? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel?” Now, something within me is restlessly stirring. Something is going to happen, and it is going to be magnificent. I am still unsure of how to be graceful, of how to not grieve like a child when I behave like a child. But, I think it all begins with letting the wind touch you, feeling the sunlight on your skin, despite the overcast. It all begins with being aware of the color of the moon at 7 in the evening, and the color of the sun at 7 in the morning. It all begins with touching everything with your eyes with the warmth of the sun— and you will find grace.