Have not been writing much, and, as a result, my syntax feels foreign, my words off. 

So, I’ll write this as one does a letter to an old friend.

For what more could one wish 


The above was published inadvertently – a draft from last night left open in the wordpress app. And, having opened wordpress tonight to perhaps write, it was published when I tried to save it without reverting its status to a draft. 

Nonetheless, I won’t psychoanalze it. 

For what more could one wish for than to write and be as truthful as one could in a letter to an old friend – provided I had a friend as old or as dear to me as the pen. 

This is what I do. I write. 

I sit on my balcony listening to Explosions in The Sky YHIM, and I watch as my girlfriend sleeps on the couch with our dog Sophie in her arms. To be at home and to feel safe. No other luxury compares. 

And yes, I ate too much. 

But of the luxury I behold now, I am grateful. 

It was not but two hours past we took the dogs for a walk and encountered a lurker across the street, somone clearly on drugs, sizing us up and apparently determining whether to rob us or perhaps even worse. 

Not really a story worth telling, but after I had walked us to the brightest corner and postured as assertively as I could, we returned home where we both sighed deeply in mutual relief. 

Reminded of the time I was sitting with a girlfriend near her dorm and three coyotes approached us in pitch dark. I too postured then, but unlike then I did not bask in the glory of overcoming a potential, albeit mild, form of predation. No, tonight I came in and held Sarah a bit dearer in my eyes. And I was glad we were safe. 

And yes, the temporary preservation of mortality aside, I have not been writing much. But books suffice where my own words cannot, sending the same water rushing through my veins; for to read Steinbeck or Victor Hugo is to read a letter from an old friend. 

I stave off death and loneliness best I can, well aware the latter is comparatively under my own accord. 

But I am now good with loneliness – it’s death that haunts. That unshakable feeling that it was all temporary. But I hope it meant something. It did to me. 

Still does. 

Still making my way back to the home I never had. Glad I have someone to enjoy this heaven with. Just hard to feel all else was some sort of way station. But it’s easy to feel forgotten in time. Not always easy to forget though, is it. 

So, I write. To kindle the warm fire that for now staves off the cold dark, to stem the tide of time. To say that I HAPPENED. And no, I did not forget. Life just goes on, though, doesn’t it.  

This all feels very melancholy, and perhaps it is; I mean, it doesn’t go on forever.  Thankfully, unlike published drafts, memories come already edited in time. And that’s okay with me. Just sad I can’t hold them so high anymore.  

I guess the past just isn’t what it used to be, sport. 

Now go on old boy, be here now. 


Draft #4

I’ve saved three drafts tonight, and dodged I don’t know how many personal bullets. 

I wonder how many writers let their unconscious script their writing, and thus their lives?

For me, by draft three I knew these were conversations – or, rather, drafts – to share with her. 

And I’m sure we will learn something and we will grow of it. 

Mostly, I’m terrified of being thirty and having someone to let down other than myself; for I have let down myself enough, which, in itself, is a terribly private confession – but I do not pretend perfection; I only claim to know myself – as any good writer ought. 

I think the most difficult and brave thing in a relationship is knowing how to not project your personal bullshit onto your lover – how to not displace the guilt and insecurities into blame, creating a drama you can use as an outlet for your own stress. 

I admit, my business is not where I want it to be. 

I admit, commitment becomes somehow more frightening with age. 

I admit, I get lonely too. 

I am human. 

But in my humanity, I am magnificent. For as a writer, I get to decide whether I will clear the collective unconscious, lessening the burden of guilt by confessing my sins, or whether I will saddle it with the debt of a drama I have never paid. 

So, I write about what it means to be human. To sip whiskey on your balcony at X:15 am and confess your petty sins, which others will always crucify you for later anyway. 

I wish everything would be perfect when I awake, but alas, the future takes time. 

And maybe on draft number five, I’ll finally feel alright. 

Only Yesterday

The sun will rise tomorrow,
As straight as the crow flies;

Daylight will come.

And it will be a good day for some,
And for others: one dark and tired

But I promise you this:

They’ve already decided –

For whether they know it or not:
Their day is upon them.

But –
Shall they meet us,
Perhaps then they will know what we do:

Which is that the human heart – if unafraid –
Shines right into the blind-spots of our souls,
That pulling darkness,
That invisible, secret shadow-side to each individual’s light

And should someone’s light throw shade on my shine
I am unafraid to use that yin,
And wear the black darkness about me like a cloak
So that I may once again slip in,
And explore the depths within this heart of mine –

Where I,
Brave and trusting,
Shall seek the light –
That yang-energy hiding behind the wound I have yet to find

And finding the sad thing
– As the seeker always does –
I will carefully remove the stitches,
Drenching the lonely sad plains in my soul with undiscovered parts of myself,
Where only yesterday,
I didn’t know I existed.

And when our wounds have been finally opened and examined,
We will be more whole –
Our wings once again dipped in gold,
We will have grown,
Not simply older,
But better, brighter, lovelier, and wiser –
Than we ever imagined,
Only yesterday