Pine, Ephemeral

Monster let's out a few cries before bed. I think somewhere in the bible it said it was good to cry out before bed. Whether a cry of ecstasy or a cry of anguish - I believe that without a cry of something, you're missing something. A missing cry, may mean a missing mind. A missing soul, or maybe a missing heart. You missed something.

Beams cut my room sideways, which were enough to wake me up early, the first time in a while. But I had also gone to bed around nine the night before, I had gone to bed with an Ativan and a Seroquel. It had been a pretty bad night. I felt slightly well enough to go up into the woods to take some photos. I maybe took one. It was cold and everything was frosty orange in the light. I felt very anxious and irritable, so I took an Ativan and my daily Paxil. At the market with my brother and Erica, I bought some vegetables: green onions, a cucumber, a zucchini, some sweet onions, an eggplant, some cheeses, and some honey sticks.

We returned home, and my mum and Erica started talking about what they wanted to do with the sun room. They wanted to help me and do wonderful things, and I hated them all for it. I felt like I wanted to rip everything off the walls and floor and pile it all into the centers of all the rooms and beat the piles to dust. Something regarding pancakes, I couldn't eat. I just wanted to go into the woods and hack at a tree with my axe. And I did. I felt stupid all day, felt worthless all day, felt like I wanted to tell everybody I knew that I hate their guts, that I had more concern about the fates of the things that lived in their guts.

And for these feelings I hate every cell in this vain boys body, and want not one to remain.

Eventually my brother, Erica, and myself went up to the woods. We were hiking, looking for a tree. A very different tree that lays way up high on the edge of one crest of the valley's hills. It is a pine of some kind, bare up it's trunk til a twill of green puffs up a little, and out a lot. It is angled as if it wants to reach out just one needle further. My brother turned back about halfway there, but Erica came along with me. We passed a horse and its rider on the way up, and we twisted through towering thickets and dark tunneled paths. Under power wires, power lines, the powering kinds. We did make it to that tree. And for forty minutes we carved our initials into it's nearly perfect trunk. I faced the sunset, she faced the sunrise. I felt very close to the tree, I felt as if I knew it very well, and that it knew me too, though we had never met. It felt so comforting to lean against it and to let my arms hold it. It was better than any woman, as real as any lover, truer than an old mother. To have seen it bathed in all missed sunsets from so far away and so long ago, to have seen its ember silhouette and than felt the mortality of its brittle bark, and to have bitten my name into it's flesh - I think I felt something.

Before sleep tonight, I took another Ativan and I took my Seroquel. My only cry is one of reluctance, that I will never be able to feel this tree again in that moment.

It's a fragile cry, an ephemeral whimper. It's a strung memory in the sun's winds. I wish to wake up tomorrow, and not know a soul, and not a soul to know me. I do not want pity and I do not want care. I want to be ignored for the vain boy I am, for my cold twisted veins which knot into my grey heart.