Some days, I simply don't feel like existing. Please do not mistake my sentiment for suicidal tendencies. I feel that there is a sense of narcissism in suicide. That, and such a desire to be a a pitied victim, that one is willing to sacrifice everything for it. This take is merely my opinion.

But I am not particularly given to drawing attention to myself. I am an old man, and I simply feel. I wish now, to feel less. There is no efficient remedy. So I wait it out. It is a shame at this age I still must play the waiting game. Each minute has grown exponentially more valuable to me as my years increase, and yet the amount owed for the illness of my life remains the same with no compensations made for my benefit.

Life is so unfair. But what worth is fairness when it is distributed among the wicked and undeserving? I wish my feelings would be in sync with my mind. I know that every experience, every individual, every object I come by and may call my "own" on this world is a gift to me, a lucky little speck of chance blown my way, and yet when they are taken from me, I feel denied. I bargain at the air as if it would make a difference. I need to learn to let go of things. I am ashamed and sorry, to admit that one of the defining characteristics of Eric, is that he can't let go. He can't be content with what he is given and relieved of. What is the use of such tenacity?

h

When I was born, my mother said I had a head of hair. She looked at me with my angry purple skin, she said that I was ugly but she loved me even then. She worried that my father wouldn't adore me when he saw, he was working until 8, and I was born at roughly 6.
Sure as dawn he saw me and he gazed down at the floor, he flickered a half smile but that was it, and nothing more. He knew that hints of youth had been extinguished by my birth. He congratulated my mother with a nervous lack of mirth.
1 year and 4 months later is when I was told I'd become the man, because father took his clothes and left us, never to be seen again.
My mother, Eva, died when I was 21.

The roots are buried deep in toxic earth on which my feet desperately kick for traction. The vile soil is rich with the rot of resentment and poor choices.
My previous inertia has allowed this weed to entrap me and hold me stilled, so much that my choice to resist is hopeless and too late.
I cease, and my feet slowly sink into the poisonous loam. I have succumbed to my insecurity. The vines ensnare my limbs and wrap around me fully until they dangle from my digits. Soon they will erupt with foul foliage and blossom with ugliness, feeding from the dirt I have surrounded myself with and the actions I have given in to. This is a parasite slowly taking me: leading me to do things in an attempt to alleviate it which only make it grow more. Soon there will be only a brutish weed where I once stood.

To love is to live.

With finger outstretched silently, I reached into the night.
Summoned by my pulsing warmth, a moth took break from flight.
I studied the moth for all it was, enamored by the thing,
But as I began to express myself, the moth had taken wing.
I stood there lonely for a moment, in company of the moon,
the simple beauty of the insect had moved me,
despite being here and gone so soon.

One of little faith,
Poorly you did fare.
You set your heart upon a path
And never made it there.

You sway your hips when you walk away from me. I see the emphasis you put into each step; you transfer the motion to your hips rather than your knees. You think I will find this sexually attractive. Woman, I am blind to these nuances.
There is a light behind your smile: a studio light. You straighten your upper lip when you grin so I won't catch a fleeting glimpse of your prominent gum line. You restrain yourself; you present your perceived best; hoping this will be appealing to me.

Woman, the only way you could ignite my interest is by shamelessly exposing the ugliness you try to hide from me. I have seen a lot of pretty women. You are nothing exotic to me. What is exotic to me is seeing your vulnerable, disgusting humanity slip out and scatter all over the floor like a snapped pearl necklace. Seeing you flustered as you scramble to pick up all the beads: each passing second adding another degree to your burning shame. This would make you stand out to me.

I am dead. My self is spent. If you're looking for a person he has long since been evicted.

Erroneous– and worn upon,
One's deep thoughts do lead one on,
Like mischievous wisps of tobacco smoke
Evading the lips they do provoke.

I have found Emma. She is in me. She is out of me. She is around me. Emma cradles me in the ever-marching line of time.
I have wasted so many nights grieving over my loss. Over the loss of her. but Emma isn't lost. We were one. My half lives on, and hers too. Separated, we are whole apart.
We are whole apart. That sounds fantastic.

I have found something that makes me feel alive. A soothingly physical hobby that whisks the concentration from my mind and drops it onto the deck of a longboard.
It feels good. When your adrenaline is pumping and you're focused on getting your posture just right, you really can't focus on the things that be-grieve your soul.
I wish my board had a name. Definitely not Emma though. This is my new woman for the time being. I ride her as I please, and she brings me no grief. I don't love her, but I enjoy her company very much. We're on an adventure together.