Incarcerated late at night...

I keep coming back here to write, because I feel a stronger connection to life, and life is just a bundle of words that add up to stories. And even tough our tales seem finite, you'd have to figure that as soon as someone else adds a word, by ripple effect, they go on forever in each direction. It's really crazy if you think about it, isn't it? A hundred years ago a man scribbled down something on a tiny bit of paper, and then he had a son, who had a son, who had me, then suddenly those words on that tiny piece of paper were part of a greater whole. Then that got me thinking ... what if we're all part of this unending scripture, and our stories start even before we are born? What if we're able to write even after we die? And all those words just keep piling onto each other until they become one? One story. One life?

People we've know since always will one day disappear - they will die and be turned into ash or buried deep withing the earth. It will happen sometime in the future. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe years from now. It's kind of magical if you take the time to ponder it. The fact that just because someone dies, just because you can't see them or talk to them, it doesn't mean they're gone or that they aren't part of your story anymore. Perhaps that is the point of it all. There's no dying. There's no saying goodbye. There's no you or me or them ... it's just us. And this sloppy, colourful, wonderful thing that has no beginning ... no end ... I think this is us telling our story. One word at a time, until we are forever connected. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I think I am finally okay with the fact that you died, and all these words you read here ... this is for you and me. This is for us.

October I'll remember...

Down in the world below...

Downtown we let it go,

sunset high and our bodies low.

Blood rush in the hazy glow,

my hands, your bones,

loose up we break the scene.

One step deep as you fall to me,

heart clap, we skip a beat.

Count one two three,

and don't you stop the music,

get into it -

won't you dance with me?

Sadness grows when you're cold...

He slowly rolled out of bed, still in a haze from the nightmares that haunted his dreams. The queen size bed made him feel like he was lost in an ocean, yet as he slowly regained consciousness, even the bed felt tainted - mainly because it wasn't his. It was an inner-spring monument to lies, a petri dish of mendacity he had shared with everyone he once called family, lover, friend and shared now with creeping thoughts that flew from the light but left harsh scratches and diseased black feathers. He promised himself that, as soon as he could, he would rid himself of this life that was forced upon him, this bed, his clothes, his black glasses - everything but the flesh he lived in. He would scrub himself clean and flee to start a new life whose first and only commandment would be: never let thyself fall so far again.

His war without weapons...

All we do is feel the fade...

I feel upside down, and I can't seem to find my paradise again. I'm torn between the life I lived, the stars I touched, the people I met, and the world I came back to. Everything feels so foreign. My skin, the faces of my friends - it's as if everything morphed as I was busy chasing my dreams. I forgot how the little things actually matter to me. From my stupid stories, to laughing with the people I love and those who love me back. My world is a whirlwind, and if nothing else, this new found confusion is shedding light to the darkness that still lurks in the corners of my soul. Mark my words, this period shall not define me. I will come back better and stronger than ever. With a twinkle in my eyes and a renewed sense of purpose. But until that day arrives, I will hide away within myself, and try to navigate the storm as best I can. I will play it safe and dream of a tomorrow when I am once again on the ground.

The ghost of your touch...

Hiding the cracks...

I've never been afraid of the highest heights

or afraid of flying now.

I've never been afraid of the wildest fights -

not afraid of dying

But now I want off this ride 'cause you're scaring me,

 and I don't like where we're going.

And I know you're gonna miss me

because you changed the way you kiss me.

A million reasons to quit the show...

And in that moment he knew, knew for sure, with an absolute certainty, that this is rock bottom, this is what the worst possible thing feels like. It is not some grand, wretched emotional breakdown. It is, in fact, so very mundane. Rock bottom is an inability to cope with the commonplace that is so extreme it makes even the grandest and loveliest things unbearable. It is feeling that the only thing that matters in all of life is the one bad moment - nothing that came before has any value or substance. Rock bottom is everything out of focus. It’s a failure of vision, a failure to see the world how it is, to see the good in what it is, and only to wonder why the hell things look the way they do and not ... and not some other way.

Blues run the game...

Writers remember everything ... especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar. Because art consists of the persistence of memory. So do not sit still; start moving, because scars can only be gained in motion. In the beginning, you may not go in the direction you want, but as long as you are moving, you are creating alternatives and possibilities. Do it. Do it badly; do it slowly; do it fearfully; do it any way you have to, but do it nonetheless.

Life isn't as magical here, and you're not the only one who feels like you don't belong, or that it's better somewhere else. But there are things worth living for. And the best part is you never know what's going to happen next, what lurks behind the corner, who you'll meet when you least expect it. Life is a steamroller and all you can do is try to enjoy it, because it will be over sooner than you think. So all he is left with is the magic of believing in himself, believing in his quixotic ambition, letting the failures of the previous day disappear as each new day dawned. Yesterday was not today, and the past did not predict the future if he could learn anything at all from his mistakes.

I write this song for me...

I feel as if the future I had planned is slipping through my grasp, more so than ever before. I knew coming back would be an adjustment, I just never imagined I would have so much difficulty morphing back into my old life. Perhaps it is because I am no longer who I was, ever slightly different, maybe even with an everlasting scar that I will forever need to hide. Time stands still as I take another breath and not even closing my eyes shoos the demons away. I find that as always, I am alone. Stranded by my own accord, her promise, and their unwillingness to see past the superficial. The road ahead is paved with potholes and is shrouded in a mist of fog. The people by my side vanish into thin air, and I am left with nothing but my shadow and that same old stupid grin on my face.

My heart still beats for you...

Counting days and weeks...

I met you in the dark, you lit me up,

you made me feel as though I was enough.

We danced the night away, we drank too much,

then you smiled over your shoulder,

and for a minute, I was stone-cold sober.

I knew I loved you then,

but you'd never know,

because I played it cool

when I was scared of letting go.

Please say you won't let go...

Now everybody knows...

He is strong, but he is also tired; tired of always having to be the strong one, of always having to do the right thing. Of being presented with impossible choices, yet somehow being expected to sail towards calmer seas. So as he looked out at the horizon, he realised that for the first time there was nowhere to go, nowhere left to run, and he just had to stay here, facing this terrible truth. He felt, as more tears fell, just how exhausted he actually was, a tiredness that had nothing to do with the hour. He was tired of chasing a dream that will forever remain a fantasy, tired of pretending to be more put together than he actually is, tired of not talking about it, tired of pretending things were okay when they had never, ever been less than okay. Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.

Until he's grey and old...

I am clumsy ... I drop my phone all the time and hit my leg into something at least three times a day. I read endless amounts of sappy blogs and can recite my favourite quotes by heart. I have an obsession with being put together and I will always answer the phone - unless I really don't like you. I think I have a dream, but most of the days I'm still sleeping. The grass is cut. It smells like strawberries. Today is the beginning of something new. The old has gone and passed and I cleaned my drawers. Do you believe in the power of the universe? And can I tell you about Icarus? How he flew too close to the sun? I want to make coming here and reading my words your favourite part of the day. I want to leave tiny little pieces lingering in your mind, on nights when you're far away and can't sleep. I want to make everything around us beautiful; make small things mean a little more. Make you feel a little more. A little better, a little lighter. I want to be someone you can't live without.

He travels and in the end will never be kept. But if you understand him well enough, he’ll always be by your side. He might have forgotten where his home is in this world - but you might just make him feel like the closest thing to feeling at home. And while he’ll be leaving again real soon, this is the way you will never leave his heart. Because home is where you go to find solace from the ever changing chaos, to find love within the confines of a heartless world, and to be reminded that no matter how far you wander, there will always be something waiting when you return. Yet it could not be his home till he had gone from it and returned to it. Now he was the prodigal son.