There are two pains:
One of what was,
and it's cousin,
what never was.

There is the pain
of fools, who
misunderstand,
and that of the wise,
who understand.

Samuel has recently started college. He thinks he wants to graduate with a degree in digital media design. I think that's perfect for him. We don't get to have quality time often, though we do keep in touch on Facebook. I embarrass him online whenever I can :-).

Sam recently told me Emma is doing fine. She may have failed me, but she did do a good job with him and Peter. I try to put the fact that I was robbed of being there for them aside. It makes me bitter to dwell on. Anyways, Peter is doing well, too. Junior in high school. He's got a girlfriend now apparently– a little Korean girl who is into break dancing. Sounds like fun.

Seeing Sam was truly the highlight for my week, though. We went hiking together. I am proud of his his exuberance, reliving what I once lived. Such a lanky boy, but a healthy kid. Taller than I was at 18. He's got his mother's eyelashes and thick, wavy blonde hair. He's wearing it a bit too long these days. I've been tempted to feel unhappy he resembles her, but he's got my dark and stern eyes, so I will say I've won this round. Kid's got a miserable little excuse for a beard, too, though don't tell him I said that. It's pretty patchy with red spots here and there. If he's anything like me though, he will be a viking in no time.

Sam told me he's never had a girlfriend before. He isn't too happy about it. I tell him it's not a worry, but I think he will ignore his old man's advice like most young men do. He doesn't need to experience the pain of women yet. I don't think he is ready, anyways. He's very idealistic. He needs to combat life on his own for a while, make some mistakes, make some decisions. I have a strong feeling he's going to be a good one though– not make some of the mistakes I have made.

Lumenase 2, the essence of your life.
Shoot up, reboot you and rid you of strife.
No other drug in merely a drop will give
such love, such virile and the will to live.
Mystery as to what wonder's within;
What magic is held in such a small tin.
Tired of sorrows and eager for change,
Drug me and leave me in stupor deranged.

My footfalls ring throughout the trees,
with no echo amongst them all.

The field before these woods had stretched as far as eyes could see.
Unlike this creeping, creaking forest which now surrounds me.

Any way I look I see archetype trees.
Every one I've seen thus far; identical to these.

There is no change of scenery, no promise of an end.
Should peril meet my hapless self, no alert could I send.

The uniformity, once nice,  has grown to bring me fear.
The sheltered canopy, now a shroud, no longer welcomes me here.

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.