One hand to the sky, sword in grasp, stabbing the stars.
The dust on my feet feels like defeat. 
No blood, only rain.
The drops on my face feel like defeat. 

One hand to the sky to rip the sun apart. 
This trailer park smells of defeat.
No scars, only shine.
This empty bottle smells of defeat. 

One hand to the sky to crush the clouds.
This icy wind whispers of defeat.
No tears, only fog. 
This approaching siren screams of defeat.

We see no loss.  We hear no death.

Brilliantly deluded fornicating flies. 
Offspring of the dirt, parents of the dirt.
We lift our bruised faces in defiance. 

And taste defeat.

Gravity is a malevolent thief, a robber stealing the tears from my eyes.  Unbidden and unwanted, the tears slip to the ground.  My bones ache with the constant pull of the earth, begging me to join the dust.  And I know-- the dirt is hungry for my tears least of all. Down.  Down.  Down.  This earthen coffin, like a gaping throat, awaits its feeding. 

If you've ever lost a loved one, I pray for you.

The nights are both too warm and too cold.  My bed is too soft and too hard. My back is too stiff.  My eyes are too dry and too wet.  The count-down has begun and comfort is unattainable.  They told me eventually the pain would go away.  Almost eleven years, and it hasn't.  The count-down has begun and the inner turmoil is nearly unbearable. 

These last few days, I've had difficulty smiling.  There is a heavy sense of impending sadness on the air.  A thick smog of despair is rolling in.  The count-down has begun.  I try not to think about it.  I try not to think about the dead.  I try not to think about death.  But it's difficult when holidays are marked by tears. 

My skin crawls, my throat swells up, hot tears drown my eyes.  They told me it would stop.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop.  My wooden chair is creaky, and the table I occupy is a little cramped.  But the cup of black heaven sitting next to me has sufficiently numbed my ability to be bothered.  The rain outside makes me grateful to be indoors.  Despite the cold rush of air that flows over me each time the door opens, I can't help but enjoy the scent of coffee that wafts along with the icy blast. 

I like this place.  But what I enjoy most about this little joint is not the rustic tables, not the muted cherry red walls, and not even the seemingly endless amount of rooms, rather, it is the art that is scattered through-out the shop.  Enigmatic paintings surround me, and I am drawn to deciphering their code.  There's a clock within a Chinese Checker Board next to a old-time painting of Le Tour Eiffel.  There's a painting of seashells and broken pieces of jade entitled 'Jaded.'  I can't help but pretend that painter has discovered at least part of the meaning of life.  The title is all too apt.  The seashells are broken and full of holes, and the jade is jagged and sharp. 

The painting that intrigues me the most is the photo entitled "Euphoria." I see conformity; I see panic; I see a desperation for blissful ignorance.  The photo is of a man dressed in a business suit.  Behind him is a window mutilated by fingernail clawings.  His teeth are clenched and his mouth is open.  He holds an eyemask up to his face and seems to be pushing himself into it with quite a bit of violence.  I'm not sure what the photographer truly meant to communicate, but I know what the picture means for me.  The window behind the man represents his mind.  The claw marks represent desperation and bottled frustration.  His action is his attempt to hide from that which he sees.  "Euphoria" seems to be an appropriate name.  Perhaps he is trying to blind himself to the truth. 

My sound-track: Hindi Sad Diamonds.  Over and over again.  The build-up and musical confusion through too many instruments playing at once suits the photo. 

Unleash these waves.  I will float on this ocean I call 'Emotion.'  I long to be swept away in the tide, stolen away by the sea.  I want this water to swell and undulate around me.  I want to drown.  Drag me down, Fear, Sadness, and Joy.  I want to sink and watch the light fade away. 

My feet are firmly planted on the shore.  The sand has sucked me in.  And it pulls me.  It pulls me back and back and back, until all I see is desert.  Mountains of sand surround me--blotting out the sun. 

But I still smell the sea on my fingers, and that can never be taken away from me.