little time has passed
so idle chit-chat will do.
what else can we say?


Latticed cell

Ideas crystallize into words—monocrystalline beryl letters that grow to a golden termination. Sharp by nature, not intention; and still they stick and stab. So easily and quickly formed. So seemingly fragile, yet impossible to destroy once hardened. Words that can’t be undone.

Here, as a trigonal crystal system, each utterance of a thought adds to the network of columns of aquamarine and dolomite that jut in every direction. Minerals that capture light to reflect soft teals and rainbows in the most brilliant of prismatic prisons. Pillars of stibnite, dark and shiny—an arm’s length away.

Around me crystals grow and spread with each exhaling attempt to explain, as if any emotion can be completely clarified. Words can never capture the pure essence of a thought, let alone a feeling, and each confession is only a vaguely translucent shade of cornflower striving to be transparent as new, longer hexagonal columns of emerge. Behind me. On the far left side.

There is no point in speaking now—or remaining silent. My presence is sufficient enough for this rhombohedral lattice to continue to grow. Maybe my eyes are too loud and leave me in this cage of rose quartz and amethyst and emerald. I sit, surrounded by minerals, and shrouded in rainbows and whispers of color. Buried by the complexity of feelings and the trappings of my own words. Waiting for time to weather all the fragments away.

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Those women

Sometimes I watch them from afar: the women who have done what I did not. Could not.

I study their photos. Usually, black and white portraits; candids. Always without makeup. Always managing to capture a perfectly spellbinding essence. Small elements hover in the background and tease me with hints about their personality and interests. Sometimes I recognize items from when I was there. I cannot help but be curious.   While sifting, there eventually comes a point when I decide to take my own picture in a similar fashion. I primp and stage–find the best setting. But no matter how many angles or expressions I try, none of them satisfy me. So I consider asking my girlfriend to take pictures of me because she has a way of seeing beauty that I do not.

In the process of sifting I wonder why I failed. I know why I failed (because I was never intended not to fail); but why did I have to fail and be forced to walk–or pushed–away?

None of it really matters because, given the chance, I would not go back. I am happy where I am. Still…even in the most inane and irrelevant situations, my insecurities bubble to the surface and lock me into a state where I succumb to feeling less than. Immature and unfounded emotions. Comparisons cloud my mind and I lose perspective and reason:

She can do the crow, but I cannot because my wrists are weak.

Their now-shared porch is covered with potted plants. They surround the wooden swing where he and I sat and smoked cigarettes. Everywhere she is, vegetation thrives. My broccoli is stunted. Miscolored. Inedible. It hardly looks like broccoli at all.

She can run a half-marathon; I can barely run a mile.

He is not allergic to her cat. Maybe it is hypoallergenic.

There are pictures of the two of them walking through the nature park where I used to work. All along, questions were asked that she knew I could answer. “[My wife] reminds me of you.”

Her flightiness trumped my devotion.

Her boobs are smaller than mine.

These moments/facts are (admittedly) only significant in a mental space of darkness, self-loathing, and pity created by the opportunistic Beast thats lays in wait. The Beast whose movements deform perceptions into a false reality. Outside of that space there is no need for me to care.

As long as keep the Beast at bay.
As long as I do not let it in.
As long as it does not accept my invitation.

As long as I remember that to someone else, I am one of those women, too.