Monday, March 1, 2010

[Chapter 6] Dreaming.

To dream is to bestow obscurity, for dreaming is not intended to exuviate perspective. Dreams encrypt our psyche while unequivocally embellishing our deepest reveries. The primer, hidden deep within our subconscious, is the quintessential missing link.


My gaze is transfixed. Paralysis has clinched victory over myself and my body reeks of insecurity and unease. I try to look away, to look away before she senses my ineptitude. Staples clasp my eyelids to my brow. A droplet of blood trickles down the posterior of my nostril, crying freedom as it drops into a blissful oblivion.

I’m elevated, not floating, merely elevated. My stomach wrenches, either infinitely or finitely, I’m unable to tell as I prepare to become one with the earth. The earth rudely evades me. A lonely gray surrounds me; #999999 in its consummate essence. I’m only able to sense the earth floating below me as vertigo waits to settle in for the evening.

What a treat it is to see that Death has come rapping upon my chamber door, only to dash my pessimistic hopes and prayers once more.

“But why not me?” I implore.

“After you I am not, it is Her you are for.” Death responds as the shrouded black hole sanctimoniously diverts its stare thievishly upward.

Her chestnut locks compliment Her hazel eyes. Floating graciously above me, she stares ostentatiously through me. I want to look away, to close my eyes; crimson tints my vision.

Her mouth opens as if to scream, but instead a stereo of heavenly melodies is exuberated into the air about me. She sings. Oh does she sing! To say that Her aria brings warmth to my soul would be to belittle each striking note. My pain is diminished and my gray incubus gives way to a blessing dressed in the bluest of skies.

As swiftly as bliss rises, bliss sets.

Men from all angles are drawn. They are drawn from thin air, from above, and from sides all around. Doctors, lawyers, architects, and stockbrokers; they surround Her. They approach from above me. I try to fly but I am grounded. I outstretch my arms, but the length of my reach falls short by a distance that would otherwise be deemed negligible.


She stares at me. I stare at Her. A moment of understanding. Is this emotion that she bequeaths? Longing? For fear I will never know, as she is engulfed by the offspring of everlasting dreams.

I’m falling; Death has granted my wish. Whether ‘twas a moment or an eternity, ‘tis not for me to know. Purgatory has relinquished my soul.

My blue is trumped by my gray which gives way to my familiar black. Hope of waking is confused with that of dying.

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

Monday, January 26, 2009

[Chapter 5] Revelation.

She’s lying right next to me.

Another one. Another lonely girl, another lonely night. A night fueled by absent lies, bitter drinks, and impermissible moral principles.

How many is that now? Such a conjecture is not one I dare to cloud my disarrayed mind.

I can’t take it. Hypocrisy thy name truly is thyself. But dare I risk sounding cliché?

Such is too late.

I preach. I preach to my socially ascending siblings. I preach to my depraved friends. I even risk preaching to those who truly know me best. Those of which who have stood by me since the beginning. Those who have never questioned my motives, but merely given me insight toward an outside perspective.

I preach to you.

My readers are all that I have, and what is it that I have given you in return? I certainly have not made you more intelligent. I haven’t given you anything you can sell for profit. All that I have given you is a metaphor for a life that is beyond control. One withstanding conformity and humility.

Far be it for me to practice that of which I preach on a daily basis.

Not I. Not the one seeking sexual annexation, nor the one wiping each tear away as his best friend kisses his girlfriend goodnight.

It couldn’t be… me.

I roll my cheek onto her forehead. She’s staring at me.

She stares at me as the other breathes deeply into my chest. Her eyes gaze gently down upon me; she is mocking me. Her glazen blue eyes, soft mysterious lips, and her Gibson acoustic guitar bolstered on her nurturing bosom. She is everything I want, and nothing I can have.

Colbie Caillat is a metaphor for the life that I want and the woman I’d give anything for. She once said that her song, Bubbly, wasn’t written about her crush but rather her dream guy. She is my dream, and I keep waking up.

“Why do you do that?” whispered a voice, emanating from what seemed to be right within my own ear.

“Do what?” I asked, jarring out of my daze.

“Why do you detach yourself? You detach yourself from these girls who have deeply fallen for you, from your friends who would do anything for you. Trey, I’ve seen you detach yourself from your own family.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I’ve been asked this before, but only through Internet commentary. Never have I had these words directed toward me in such an abrasive manner. Surely this is just playful banter.

“I… I don’t know” were the only three words I could stutter.

She sighed, adjusting her head onto my chest as she closed her eyes. I could feel the warmth of her exhale running serenely down my ribs, diffusing itself across my stomach, as if a slow stream wallowing down a hillside into a mellow pond.

It’s true.

My eyes are transfixed to the sharp ridges of the ceiling above me.

What am I hiding from? Why is it that every time someone tries to get close to me, I unceremoniously show them the proverbial door? I’m certainly not afraid of being hurt. I’ve been there and back ten times over. My heart may be callused, but far from the cause.

What’s the differential diagnosis? Quick.

Perhaps you’re afraid of letting such a catch down. Disappointment can be a real deal breaker these days. But no, that’s not it at all, is it Trey? You’ve known all along, you just couldn’t admit it.

No, no it’s not. You’re afraid that she’ll let you down. You’re afraid that she will disappoint you. She’ll take every single thing that the two of you worked so hard to build, the trust, the compassion, the love, and she’ll make one tiny mistake and it will all be gone.

You’ll crush her, but you don’t care. You won’t give a shit, all because you’re safe now. You’ve got yourself, you’ve got your words, and you’ve got your future. You have your future. There will be no our, there will be no we, it will just be you.

You stupid, narcissistic, son of a bitch.

“You have to go.”

“What?” she asked wearily.

“I’m sorry. You have to go.”

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

Friday, December 12, 2008

[Chapter 4] Envy.

Perspective construes reality. It is an inevitable force that is unable to be faltered. Each passing moment of each passing day of each passing year, each changes the course of my future, the course of your future, and the course of our future as we adjust to accommodate to its obstinate errand. It has the propensity to force us all to qualify our life decisions at will.


Here I am.

Here I am, I’m leaning. I’m leaning over the same old counter, in the same old house, unable to stand upon my same old feet.

I’m staring absently into this cracked old mirror. I wonder how this mirror came to be cracked. I’m sure it did nothing to deserve such a morbid penance. Some asshole like me indubitably threw his fist in a fit of rage as he helplessly watched his reflection mock him from the other side. Mocking him for being such a failure. Mocking him for his loneliness.

The grass really must be greener.

My hands hurt. My palms on both of my hands hurt. The sharp edge of this cheap plastic laminate digs deep into my skin, but in a way it feels good. It feels good to feel. After all, emptiness succumbs to pain.

This has all become so visceral.

Two days ago my best friend of my distant youth had a baby. He had a beautiful baby girl. He had a beautiful baby girl with a beautiful Mrs. Best-Friend-to-be.

He’s always held it together.
He’s always kept his cool.
He’s always been the man that I’ve longed to be.

Lover at 22. Father at 23.

I don’t want a child. In fact I’d be willing to endorse Trojan right here in my own little blogging world, as long as they threw me some advertising dollars; or some free condoms.

I’m not fit to be a father. At 23 I’m not fit to take care of anyone. At 23, I’m not fit to take care of myself.

I don’t want a baby. I’m still not sure if I want to deal with the encumbrance of a romantic relationship.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely and my best friend just had a baby.

It’d be easier for me to host a conference on chaos theory for a group of physicists than it would be to wrap my head around fathering another human life.

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know how he stays so calm. I don’t know how his demeanor is so confident and his swagger so cool.

Everyone loves him. I wish everyone loved me. I wish someone loved me.


My perspective changes every day. My perspective on life changes every day. My perspective on love, it changes every day. My perspective of my body, my perspective of my body changes. I am a self-loathing narcissist. I can look at myself in the mirror and wish that my abs were harder, my penis was bigger, and my face, well I can wish that my face wasn’t my own. I can also look in the mirror and think I’m the sexiest man alive. I can change my hair, throw on some new clothes and I can think, I can know, that a new piece of ass will be waiting for me at the door.

My perspective changes.

I love blogging. I love microblogging. I love social media. I love social media because of its boundless efficacy.

@Carolyn helped change my perspective. As quoted in the comment section of [Chapter 3] Muse from Objectivity is Dead:
“So, T, what is it that you're looking for that you are so firmly convinced you will never find? Methinks you may be a ‘petrarchan lover’…

…Or, is it merely that your standards are so unjust that no human could ever fill this void you lug around?

Perhaps a bit of both?

Don't take yourself (or life) so seriously…”
It’s like taking punches and not being able to say stop. All I need to do is say stop and the pain goes away. All I need to do is say stop. I can’t say stop. Does this feel good? Does it feel good to feel?

Oh my God. I am a masochist.

My standards are smothering me. My back aches from lugging this burden around. No one will ever be good enough for you. I’ll never have a chance with her. Don’t let yourself get close to her. I can’t hurt her again.

It’s the chase. I’ve figured it out! It’s the chase that I love. My mind is a paradox. I don’t want to be lonely, but I know once I break down her wall of subconscious I won’t want a fucking thing to do with her. It’s a dangerous game I play. I can’t have what I don’t want, and I don’t want what I can’t have.

I’m fucked in the head. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Either we’re all fucked, or I’m the only one. There is no happy medium. There is no common ground. There is no shade of grey.


Here I am.
I’m staring at the same old mirror.
This mirror is cracked, and his hands are bleeding.

It hurts.

“There is no life without love, none worth having anyway.” -Hank Moody, Californication

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith