This most dreaded of anniversaries draws to a close with the reassurance that there really is no need to retreat as I have often done in the past.

It’ll be four years in about twenty-four hours.

These moments pass me by with altered states of mind ranging from deep melancholy to a measured, much sought after stillness. Despite that, forty-three months have revealed that even a place such as Purgatory is not without its own seasons, and this one continues to blossom with the promise of future possibilities, even as all else will inevitably Fall during that appointed time.

I’m reminded of the chasm, of how easy it is to recount details of my life to others, aware that there’s hardly any risk in doing so since most cannot cross it into the realm of understanding, a place where I am most vulnerable. I do not begrudge them this detail… far from it; to impart understanding would invite the same discord that fills my life, but as such, the desire to delve deeper is seldom present, and I know this because that desire lingers elsewhere, somewhere is West Hollywood.

I find myself at odds with so much, and it’s not that I ever question the nature of this sacred correspondence, but such is the wondrous quality of it that I sometimes wonder whether I’m truly awake as it takes place. I’m happily mistaken more often than not, but still, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t give to have truly experienced what I did several nights past. The memory of it lingers in my mind as powerfully as that stolen, phantom kiss lingers upon my lips.

The anniversary of my descent quickly approaches, and I dwell on this as all no doubt dwell on near death experiences. I flirted with it constantly, romanced by the idea of finality and the sudden, violent end to all woes. Who was I before? What did I become after? Who am I now? What must I become in order to leave Purgatory with my head held high?

Questions that will soon need an answer as these sustaining sessions slowly segue into conversations.

She’s right as always; it is paramount that I leave in that fashion, otherwise I could hardly claim to have left at all, no matter the geographical point on the map where I might then reside. 

It seems absurdly typical that something should pass from this life once I become caretaker, only to dig its grave the next night.

there’s a nestling crow sleeping in my room right now. Seems to have fallen out of a tree and (what I assume were) its parents left it alone by nightfall. If the local wildlife sanctuary won’t take it in tomorrow I guess it’ll be up to me to raise it. I find this incredibly ironic because earlier today I was musing how it would’ve been nice to own an incubator since there have been quite a few neglected nests around my house.

I was admittedly thinking about doves then but perhaps a crow is more fitting anyways.

It seems to me that my life will – once I return to it – be entirely composed of compromises… about choosing my battles, because the number I can endure fast dwindles as these hands, already decrepit to skeletal proportions, continue to ache. I question whether some affliction has prematurely aged them. According to others, they were once beautiful. Or is it simply the extreme weight loss depression medication brought upon me? Funny, that… you can regain weight just about everywhere else.

Will I have to give up one passion in order to reserve the strength needed to pursue the other?

The thought of setting Sophia aside pains me, but so does the act of creating music.

The thought of deserting my “fictional” friends pains me, but so does the continuation of their individual journeys.

The anniversary of my expiration date is but two weeks away, so the answer is readily evident: personal well-being is secondary to artistic expression. Always has been. Always will be.

I will not stop now. After all, I’ve gone well over half a decade with a broken finger, and despite that, these hands of mine have created (and destroyed) so much.

An attempt to expel a certain word from written dialogues is currently underway, at least for tonight. One has to only peruse previous outpourings to figure out which word is being referred to, but it’ll likely resonate throughout this entry regardless of these halfhearted efforts.

This has been a life riddled with chance occurrences, fateful encounters and strange bedfellows. The night always has a way of bringing about such whimsical musings, even as the walls of silence close in around, stealing all desire to speak; the beyond beautiful exception aside, all other conversations would at present probably consist of trivial pleasantries, vacant smiles and empty gestures. Silence seems preferable, doesn’t it?

The differing sides of the Self are separating again. In that sense, depersonalization isn’t always such a bad thing.

The instinctual pull towards storytelling can sometimes be quite burdensome, and chronicling the lives of people you can never meet is depressing business as well, particularly when strength is in short supply. Despite that, writing remains as vital to this life as air or water, and equally as sustaining. Even so, unless it’s forced, it may be awhile yet until said friends can continue down their individual paths. Horribly drawn out affairs, these down times.

Remember: Silence is not synonymous with absence. Exercise patience even as you reflect upon the period of rest before an encore.

And its necessity.

My endurance only cuts so deep. I realize this fact as another hits me; that you’re nowhere to be found. Perhaps you don’t even exist, and it is Delusion more than Hope that has allowed me to believe otherwise for so many years. I won’t say that it’s a lonely existence, because apart from a select few, friends and acquaintances remain as they always have… as easy to come by as they are hard to endure. It’s a solitary life. A deeply meditative one, seasoned with the occasional lover who in reality only knows lust.

Still, I inevitably find myself thinking about you, and often.

The image of a broken mirror comes to mind. The idea that each fractured piece is a persona, and the notion that you’ll see yourself reflected more clearly in some than in others. There is an undeniable comfort to be found there, but can desire truly blossom knowing that they themselves are fractured too?

The answer is yes, but I desire the Dawn just the same.

Addison finally has his mission.

Exciting times ahead.

Questions fueled both by quiet desperation and a touch of madness are continually asked, but all that can be heard in response are the echoes of my own unanswered sentiments concerning Life, Love, and Purpose above all else. Endlessly they resound, within and without, and in these fleeting moments I know the comforting embrace of sleep will evade me yet again.

I have endured enough hardships to know that the sun will shortly rise, but intermingled with that knowledge is a Truth I cannot evade; that its light will shine not as a beacon of hope or anything of the sort, but rather in sheer mockery of the shadows its rays cast far and wide.

My circle of friends fast grow impatient, and their stories, though steadily progressing as is their wont, shine the spotlight on someone whose show is long overdue… a struggling magician fresh from the roaring twenties, to be exact. She’s been on the sidelines for far too long — nearly three years by my count — and these passing moments spent in quiet contemplation of their individual journeys begins to reveal a truth deeply hidden within the fray; that they are all connected, and only by unraveling the myriad layers of mystery and intrigue will the full extent of it be revealed.

May 19^th, 2008. That was the appointed day, and nearly every day thereafter… exercises in masochism, prolongations of the inevitable, living existing under that doom that I know will one day come to pass. That shadow looms over me as intimately as a lover would, constantly entwined. I’ve said it many times before in my confessions, and I’ll say it again; I’m acutely aware of the fact that I’ve endured long past my expiration date.

But there is peace in that knowledge, and I know that I’ll endure for quite some time to come, though the faces of a few who might wish it otherwise immediately spring to mind. Perhaps I’m projecting my self-deprecating perceptions onto these ghosts, but no matter, for the fact remains that Purpose remains in my life, even as these characters exit it. They impart their lessons and I carry the weight of them until I decipher their meanings. And then I carry them around some more.

This is the cycle and sometimes it has to repeated, but as of late I’ve shown remarkable progress in my ability to learn.

My life has been marked/marred by a continual need to create, marked/marred by my countless attempts at turning these long bouts of emptiness and despair into something serene, if at the very least, worthwhile, for it is only there in that phoenix-like process that I’m born anew, able to endure a little while longer. I live and I die by the merits of my work. That’s a blast from the past, yet under the scrutinizing gaze of time and introspection, it still holds true.

Perhaps this doom will forever stall in the wake of my creations.

Perhaps my parting words will be gasped as old age claims me, their nature revealed as one resembling complete satisfaction.

Perhaps no words will be spoken at all.

Perhaps the flirtations will come to an end in my sleep, and in that dream-state I’ll at long last depart into the great unknown, ushered off by this eclectic cast of characters whose stories now unfold in my mind.

An idealist can dream. That is after all, my nature.

Strange. That’s the first word that comes to mind as I reflect upon how I burnt the candle at both ends last night. What was supposed to be another night of self-absorption turned out to be something quite different, entertaining an elderly car accident victim and sharing my music with him. Maybe that sounds nice… maybe that paints a pleasant portrait of a young man who can put his own interests aside to do the “good Samaritan thing”, but that’s not the truth, is it?

Not one bit. Guilt would’ve crippled me if I left him alone, and in these confessions I’ll admit that a mere hour after heading home I couldn’t recall his face at all, let alone his voice. And we spoke for hours. His name escapes me as well, slipped my mind shortly after the introductory handshake, truth be told.

I’ve written before about doing the good thing, and my stance on how I perceive it to be bullshit. Self-serving. Hear me out. Those that are compelled to do good do so out of a desire they cannot suppress, right? Were they to ignore that impulse they’d feel varying degrees of guilt. That’s the argument. Right there. Both parties benefit, but it’s really for ourselves, so we can sleep at night. Regardless of whether it is known or not, that hidden intent/motivator makes all the difference in my mind, ultimately sullying the spirit of the kindly act in question.

What was supposed to be another night of self-absorption turned out to be just that.

As the days pass I am becoming increasingly aware of a growing disease within, and it labels itself disdain; contempt if you’re not on speaking terms. Yes, contempt for the populace at large, for the walking clichés and statistics you no doubt constantly cross paths with on your daily travels.

The intellectually inept are so tedious. If I can figure out your drive in a timely manner, I have no use for you. On the opposite end of the spectrum, to the few I hold in high regard, I’ve probably already made that sentiment known at one point or another in our dealings.

I’m well aware of the varying degrees of human nature; from the horrid atrocities we’re capable of committing to the saint-like acts of compassion we seldom expect. This is no news to anyone, and the vocalization of such matters would be redundant if not for the fact that I have recently accepted such truths as they are.

Optimism is only beneficiary when it has some sustainable foundation in the real world at large.

Childlike are the notions of shutting out darkness completely. I know that now. With regards to humanity, our inner light will always cast a shadow, even if it is an infinitesimal one. Perhaps the greatest strength achievable on the psychological plane I now inhabit can be gained with further exploration on such matters, of the acquiring of tools needed to tame the darker impulses we’re all no doubt subject to.

Still, despite everything I just said, I remain ever vigilant in my own brand of optimism. One well versed in realism.

Dum spero spiro.