They whispered through the air like a winters bite, so chilling and swift, but deadly all the same. Each whisper would be another death that Sergeant O'Connell would have to be woken up at 3 AM in the morning for.
Each morning would be the same, almost routine now. He would awake at 2:59, and on the hour he would receive a call, "Another body sergeant, down by the river." I would light a cigarette and chug down my morning coffee grab my car keys and coat off the hanger and storm out the door. The day was always unpleasant, the rain hammered down drenching every inch, leaving no part dry. Deluges of water would form the in the bottom of my shoes as my socks became saturated. I waded over to the crime scene and ducked under the tape that cornered off the area. Blood stains splattered across the pavement, and brain entrails covered the underpass walls. I crouched down and smelt the rotten flesh that had been flayed from the victim, praying that the perpetrator would leave some evidence. False hope is sometimes better than none at all.
Do you want me to draw you a picture? Capitalism is dying, and my body is not as resilient as it used to be. I ate a french-fry, now I'm cramming leafy greens into my face-hole, chewing 'til my cheeks ache. Capitalism is dying, everything is fake. anarchy is rising, money is on fire. People are exchanging products on the web. The internet is pistol-whipping citizens, who are handing over their wallets and jewels. My spirit is not as resilient as it used to be. I'm pointing my ear-hole towards the poverty-ambassadors. I'm giving fresh clean socks to every legitimate panhandler I can find.
It's getting unbearably hot. I need to move my bed across the room, right underneath that ceiling fan.
This is difficult - writing about things that aren't remotely related to you is tough. There's a pause in between the sentences I make up in my head. There are no words in that pause. There's just you. When these occur, they seem eternal, which makes me wonder if the sentences I make up in my head are the actual pauses. Makes me wonder if my every interaction with the objects around me is a break from thinking of you and from remembering the fragrance of your hair…
I'm going to bed now. And I'm going to see you when I close my eyes. You'll probably be staring at me with that cold look on your face, the face you make when I say something stupid like "I want this song to be played at my funeral". Or maybe you'll be blushing, your face pink, and your lips failing miserably at concealing your admiration for my wit. Sometimes you'll not be there and I'll only remember the warmth of your hugs. And all of this will keep me awake. All of this will slip me silently into the realm of dreams, and the world will think I've fallen asleep.
Last night we completed year number two of our newly found tradition. As I sat across the train car table, nothing could even compare to the sight of you. We sipped on fancy water like it was wine, while we sat there and reminisced about what the year had brought us. We realized then, that not much had changed. We were still having the same conversations that we had the year before, the same silly jokes and the name calling. We sat there, in love, but a love that was different than before. You see, last year, we had a kiddish love. The kind where everything you said was funny, and I just rolled my eyes in utter bliss. Although the conversations seemed to be the same, they turned out to be quite different. Now, our love was mature. Instead of the giddiness like that of last year, there was a serious tone. We talked about life, about our wedding, about each other. Then you mentioned that you couldn't make every decision for me, and that I would just have to learn how to do it for myself sometimes. As I heard those words, they had a sting to them. A year ago, you would have readily made any of the decisions that I would face. But something has changed. You were being truthful. So as my eyes teared up, I realized you loved me even more than before. No longer were you willing to cushion my every fall, but rather you were willing to help me grow. Although we picked at each other and peeled back the layers to get underneath, it was all done love. I realized then, at that moment, that I would rather have a truthful, honest love, over a sugarcoated wonderland. Without a doubt, I would choose the endless nights of the same old things, rather than a love where I felt like I had to be more than I really was. You accept me as is, but you encourage my best. And that in itself is better than any silly life of pointless adventures.
i was asked to write a sentence. A true sentence. A sentence that i am entirely sure is true. The truest sentence i could think of. it took me a while for i am unsure about most. But there is something that is true. truer that you. however i cannot use words to describe it for it is a feeling and no, i'm not talking about love and all that bullshit, im talking about the feeling when everything goes quiet, your lungs feel as though they have collapsed, every muscle tenses and in that blissful moment you feel as if you are invincible. it is the truest feeling i have ever felt. i know it is true because if that feeling was not true i wouldve given up pursuing it long ago for you see, everything is only as true as you believe it to be