There's nowhere else to go from here. I guess I look on the bright side because there's always someone more worse off, like the body they dragged out of the room next to me. I asked a girl if she was ok and she nodded, with tears in her eyes and sort of choked out while gestering towards the loaded stretcher "It's my mom."

She said "thank you" because I asked her how she was.

And the man I watched on the other side of the hall twitching in agony in his own world from what was probably a drug overdose. They're worse off.

Those were quick killers, the car accident; the shooting up. You didn't see the other car coming and you ignored the warnings for the drugs. Nine times out of ten, I bet you, he'll go back to them.

My killer's silent, too, but not so much anymore, and I wonder why it takes its precious time. It catches me around the corners when I'm pretending it doesn't exist. It reminds me: "Hello. There's a limit on your time. You can't run like the others. Or walk uphill."

But the X-ray came back fine, as always. And the EKG, as always. And the pressure was slightly elevated, the pulse was fine, the oxygen count was fine. But I wasn't fine. And there's still no clue of a reason but for the symptom: high pressure and a knife in the middle of my chest running up and down my arm from my finger tips, to my elbow, to my shoulder, to my neck and into my chest.

They told me I was too young. That's always what it's been. I fucking hate hospitals. They don't tell me the answer. Silence is worse than a verdict at this point because it leaves me sinkning in the timeline. Fuck it. This life is all I have. Won't you just let me live it?

I want my rainstorm at 3:00 pm. You know what I'm talking about.

At home, we have a little ravine below my house. If you follow it long enough, there's a little stream that overflows in the summer because there's too much water. Only last summer it was dry because we were in a drought again. And under water restriction. Anyway, when we do get our 1-3pm storms everyday on time, I walk out into them and hide under the roots of this tree on the bank until the water gets too high. No one knows about it.

But it's wonderful because the amount of water falling from the sky is just about the same as the water in the stream and all the energy charges together because there's always lightning and thunder. It's as if the entire world is charged with life. But I know that energy could kill me in a second since I'm sitting in water...in a tree.

If it does hit me, Time will flow away. I'm open to that. But remember, everything is the present moment. I have never really had a sense of linear Time. I just don't care. Tomorrow is just as good as yesterday and the rest is up for grabs.

Transfixion

It's amazing, the things that transfix you, that bring you in with the crowd, that shoot awe through you like a lightning bolt made by Hephaestus. There was a god that shot through all of us today and it was over the most commonplace of all things.

Hawks in trees eat pigeons. The thing is, we hardly ever get to see it. The bird was unafraid, uncaring of the crowd. He didn't know that what he brought to us was the wonder we had continuously when we were children. He didn't know that he brought all those children back.

Death is what captured our gazes, and life at its finest. The two grow on each other, feed each other, allow the other to exist.

Feathers sprayed everywhere, and cracks echoed off the trees and the walls. Blood was swallowed and the bird was satisfied.

It's the same story every time. I know it but don't like to voice it aloud. Jason did, though. "The people you love the most are incapable of loving you." It's true. I'll never get it back because they have nothing to give. Somehow, I think if I pour enough of myself into them, they'll give it back one day in return but vaccuums only consume and nothing ever comes back out.

Today was one of those days, when I wondered why I cared about sustaining the lie of existence. It doesn't really get you anything. Everyone dies in the end, don't we?

I got a message this morning. It said "I'm awful. But I'm alive." Unfortunately, I know what it's like to be there. Being alive but not knowing what it means, and being so curious about life's opposite that you try to answer that question too early.

Also, it came after a prescient moment. I haven't had one this strong in a long time but it was exactly as I saw it. That he was home, that he was messaging me, that he was awful, and that he wanted to sleep merely so that he didn't have to be awake. I wish I could be there with him, but that'll be a long time coming.

I think over and over again hoping that he'll hear my thoughts, "I love you. And life is more precious than you think." But nothing can change your mind other than that one day when it all clicks and you convince yourself. With Jason, I stop myself from missing the boy I used to know because this has always been him and his mind is worthier than any. But if you see the world more clearly than the masses, insanity is what you're labeled and that isolates you, so you see no point. There a few paths. I once took his. Then I decided to live for myself because that's really the only way you can. At least in full.

Life is beautiful. Sure, there's a lot pointlessness but there's a lot of that in everything. People ask "Why are we here?" I used to ask that, too. But that's a pointless question. The point is finding the point. And we probably never will but that's ok. I live for the little things and I smile at the simple things. I let myself get captured in the sky at night and the vision of stars visible, of stars too far away to see, and of stars invisible for the light pollution caused by Man. I let myself get captured by sunrises and sunsets and clouds painted on the sky; in rain; in the patterns running around the cement; in the currents of wind.

I let myself get captured in all the little things that add up to make one sweet, big world.

I wish I could share this with him in a way that would make life beautiful for him, too. I wish I could share it with you, too, whoever you are. We could get lost in sweet dreams together, and maybe it won't be a lie. Maybe my words and my love will be enough for you. Maybe you won't need or want anything else out of me to be satisfied. Maybe you'll be real instead of fantasy or the truth instead of a lie. But I think that's even a longer time coming than seeing Jason.

We're all alone by ourselves but lonely together. But that doesn't make it easier.

They say that time seems to move more quickly as you grow older, that you blink and a year's gone by, twenty years, fifty years and then you're outside of Time. But what happens if you don't blink? What happens inf your eyes are open and it all went by anyway? It registered somwhere in your head, but not really, because you were too busy living to notice.

I guess you can say I'm trapped in my head, and that I like it that way because there, Time doesn't have to exist on human terms, or on any terms. It's not even a matter of rewinding and speeding up. It's a matter of essence.

Essentially...I'm swaying back and forth, moving up and back like the ocean trapped in its rhythmic tide. I am Everywhere in many forms, like the overwhelming ocean; like the water that grows too heavy to remain in the sky and falls between the sky and the ground. I am that veil of rain.

I get lost in myself; sometimes I feel like a drowning victim. Then I remember that water cannot drown in itself. But another voice in me says "Anything can drown in itself. We are born drowning. So give your water away but never let yourself dry out."

I'll take you with me, if you'd let me, on a ride down my stream of consciousness. That stream is deep, more like a river, and to share it with another mind who can not just look but comprehend would be a relief. But the question resounds and I remain hopeful despite the outlook: "Is there anyone out there?" I've said that all I am is words. And I've asked if I am only words, can I ever truly escape the page? Do I want to? Should I want to? There's ink on the air and I trace it. But there's more of it on the inside, behind my eyes than I can ever let out. Will it all be left to waste?

When it comes to living, I suppose, everyone has a birth date and an end date. Everyone is given a timeline. But they don't know the end date, and so they live as if there is always a tomorrow. I try living like there isn't one, but I'm shy and I'm scared like everyone else. But I do know my end date, roughly speaking. And when you're fifteen and they tell you ten years...that's forever. But when you're nineteen going on twenty and the ten years is half-way up, five years and a couple of months isn't very long at all. So I can't understand why you waste your life and try to end it when you don't have a timeline like that. Wouldn't you want to suck it all up just because you could, because you can?

I tell myself that I'll beat that timeline. I don't think about it much. I try not to because the one wish that really came true was the one I really didn't want. "Send me my Friend or kill me." I guess I did get both but not to the heights that I was really thinking but who really knows what clarifying would have done when it comes to wishes?

Like I always say, I have hope that that date is just a rough estimate that I'll prove wrong. But deep down inside me, I'm beginning to get worried, worried that I won't really live. I'll never know what it's like to have your whole life ahead of you. I'll never know what it's like to be in love or to be loved back. I'll never know what it's like to have a book bound and printed.

So I go out and run in the rain until I have to stop because my heart starts giving out. Then I walk and enjoy the rain slowly. I remember the day I turned sixteen and the way I played guitar under the awning outside in that downpour. Then, when it stopped, the sky opened up and gave me two incredible arches of color sprawled across the itself, one on top of the other. It was the rainbow birthday. And there were nine years left. (Still forever.)

That was the summer the angels fell on me. I aceepted them and wrote the best I'd ever experienced. It was a constant frenzy of inspiration. I was feeling it. There's one reason I create: preservation. There's no time to leave an indelible mark to brand this world with of me. So I write that my being, or a piece of it, may live on after me for as long as Man exists.

I'm done with this day but look forward to a new one. I hope you'll be there, too, when I wake up. And I hope it'll be without regrets because life is for living and it's nice to be able to live like there is no tomorrow while knowing almost full well that there are countless ones ahead.