If you don’t know me and you’re reading this or potentially some of my other scribbles, then you may have already guessed at some sort of tragedy that plagues my waking mind. A close friend of mine was stabbed three times less than 15 yards away from me. At first it just appeared that the phantom had simply hit him with a brick, as sadly I had seen that happen before and the spray of blood was very close in resemblance. What really happened was he was stabbed in the throat and then the chest twice, rupturing his lungs and causing him to have blood now rushing out of his neck but also into his lungs. I tried to get there in time to get my hands on the ghost that all too quickly had slipped back into his car and was gone in a matter of seconds. Friends wanted to get in cars and give chase but we were all drunk and I protested against the idea, I walked over to where two of my friends hovered over him, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, without thinking I took my shirt off and handed it to them lamely, as if it would make any fucking difference. He choked on red bubbles and looked straight at me with so much fear and an indescribable panic in his eyes, then the panic was gone, and so was my friend.
I’m not explaining this looking for some form of sympathy or attention, for I am well aware that neither would help at all. I’m just trying to offer a little insight into my poems and stories, for I know many find them complex riddles with no explanation ever clearly given. I’ve had people ask me with genuine concern if I’m suicidal based upon their misinterpretation of my poems, at which I can just explain, yet again, that my problems and worries come from an extreme fear of death, so why would I ever embrace it? I have seen the edge of the fall and have watched the impact, and it has forever changed something in me.
I used to enjoy going to movies and concerts, loved the thrill of potentially meeting someone new who was worth talking to. I would offer up conversations to complete strangers and was enriched in many ways for it. Crowds frighten me now. I get shaky, and when people look at me, which they are often prone to do given my large stature, I instantly feel suspect of the stare and my skin crawls the longer it continues. I no longer crave the company of strangers and in fact even polite conversation with the lady selling me cigarettes, has turned into an unwelcome inconvenience. When I drive I picture the wreck that kills me at least five times before I’m finally safe at my destination. I’ve become so petrified of death that I’ve developed a new fear on top of it, I’m scared that I’ll be so fearful of death that I’ll spend the rest of my life watching the second hand on a clock.
I smoked weed before the incident but rarely. It was more often than not a special occasion sort of thing where it was probably only once or twice a year that I would partake. After the incident I couldn’t sleep, I would just stare at my ceiling for hours but my mind would never shut off. I tried my old failsafe method of writing everything down, but it would just send my thoughts spinning and I would just end up a shaking and blubbering wreck of a man. When sleep would finally decide to take over, it was full of nightmares and I would wake up shaking and drenched in sweat. A close friend of mine was concerned and came over to see how I was. I had been drinking heavily for around a week and was just mentally done. He had some marijuana with him and asked if I would like some, honestly I’m glad I have good friends because I was wishing for a handful of heroin and not marijuana but I said why not, can’t hurt. Part of me was scared because in my youth I had experienced many aweful paranoid highs, where things in my mind that were already buzzing would go into a full blown rampage that would either leave me crying or punching something. My fear was unfounded, for as I took a couple of rips from his makeshift joint, I immediately felt a calming sensation take over me. We started a movie after that and I smiled for the first time since it had happened, and within thirty minutes I was fast asleep. No dreams or nightmares. Just sleep. Since then I smoke a little weed everyday, enough to take away the noise without removing my common sense. It helps me but if I were caught with it I would end up in the same place as the man who murdered my friend, what kind of sense does that fucking even make?
I’ll end this with just one more piece of me splayed across the page.
See I saw the light leave his eyes, hope choked out because of prideful lies and the wicked movements of demons in disguise.
So when you ask me if I’m fine, well immediately two things flash through my mind, the first being a flash of crimson and the image of the crime.
The next thing I see is sand, falling from an hourglass held by Death’s hand, swinging back and forth across every land, claiming every nation and every single man.
Am I fine? No one is.