Feeling...

The fog has turned to rain. Shattering against my windshield like a crystal wine glass dropped on tile. Raindrops beading on the hood as if my car had just finished running a marathon. My thoughts go back to that "if" accident I could of had in the fog. Since I am mere moments from my apartment, it would make total sense crashing into a pole or hydroplaning towards oncoming traffic.

No one would miss me.

"Where the hell did that come from?!" I yell at myself. Suicidal tendencies are not something I play with and my life is in no way that terrible where ending it is and has to be the only answer. Yes I'd admit money has been tight, job has been stale, my depression has been acting up and my body weight has increased to an all time high but to kill myself, no. Being broke, bored, depressed and fat are not good enough reasons to put myself six feet under.

My wiperblades deliberately ignore a portion of the windsheild and leave a section of unwiped rain directly in front of my way of vision. Now I'm not only annoyed at my suicidal brain but my wiperblades seem to have it out for me as well. "Why would my head suddenly think like that?", I ask myself. "No one would miss me? I would miss me! She would miss me."


Once she popped in my mind, a sudden sense of peace overwhelms my body. She has always had that affect on me. We've only been dating for a small amount of time but it feels like forever, and that thought makes a smile grow on my face so big, I know it created new wrinkles and I don't mind. I truely feel happy. I missed the fun we have doing nothing but talking, touching, giggling although it was yesterday when we did all that last. There's portions of the bed I look forward to finding since these little treasures contain the scent of her hair. I cherish the moments I find them but I don't abuse it for I know soon it'll disappear. So I turn over and hope later I find it again.

Hurting myself would not only be crime against me, it would also be a crime against her because it would make her sad. I never want to do that. So I parrallel park, dial her number and ask her about her day. I hope she knows how much she means to me.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Waiting...

"The fog is thick tonight," I thought as I drove home from work.

It was as though mother nature tucked in for the evening every park and body of water with a hazy comforter. Nights like this I become extra paranoid at myself driving at speeds greater than forty. I smile as I remember to place my hands at three and nine o'clock and for a few moments pretend to be a nervous sixteen year old on their drivers exam sweaty palms and all. Then I become even more paranoid once I remember I'm not the only one lost in mother natures fog quilt.

The headlights become my guides in this museum of mist, my mirrors turn into three new sets of eyes determined to catch anything out of the ordinary and my eye brows meet again in the middle of my forehead, furrowed in anticipation of the impending accident soon to happen.

"But I've never been in an accident..." as soon as the word "accident" rolled off my mental tongue, my righthand instinctly slapped my right cheek. Like an old superstitious lady snapping her fingers three times and spitting, I begin lecturing myself:

"What's wrong with you? You know better than to think that!"
"I know," eyes rolling back.
"Don't give me that look! If you knew then why did you do it?!"
"I don't know."
"You don't know a lot, do you?"
"I guess I don't."

I don't know when my inside voice became my mother when I was six. The drive is taking forever. The route usually takes ten minutes but now is slowly rolling pass the twenty mark. My mind starts going into random mode and I begin having thoughts of cars falling from the sky or monsters creeping out of the fog. I turn the radio lower, as though that'll help my trip home become easier and less dangerous. My blinker in the fog looks like cannons shooting from a pirate ship. That thought makes me feel a little better. As though my imaginary cannons are protecting my vessle from the falling cars and monsters. Bullseye with every shot.

Willingly Unaware

What does it mean when you have the urge to to create something that can change the world yet lack the motivation to actually do it? Some say it's called "being lazy" but think it's something else. I swear sometimes when I get that impulse to grab a pen or paint brush and put that image in my head on paper or canvas, some kind of entity appears and sits on chest and rants about good it would feel to just lay there, order a pizza and watch reruns of CSI or Full House on my computer.

I tried taking a picture of it but it always comes out fuzzy...

So I drew it the best I could

I know what you're thinking and no, there is in no way anything sexual about this. Besides I'm not his type.... (sniff) and I don't care to be!

CJRGS