I have tried, and failed, to break up with this city. Any city. Particularly this one. Yet lately it feels like it might be the only tendrils holding me together. The noise. The clutter. The sadness.

And that fucking sky...

I assumed that the absolute fluorescent light that is a partner would turn it all off … all of the noise.

“...most people in the world don't really use their brains to think. And people who don't think are the ones who don't listen to others.” ― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

The foreign feeling of spending the holidays without some (or all) of the loved ones we normally surround ourselves with, can come and sit on your shoulders like a lead jacket. Does it make it any easier to know that most humans on Earth also had to suspend their patterns and forgo the lovely feeling of seeing their family?

I have sat down to write even the briefest of thoughts about Gary Ellis Fossett at least once a week since his passing. Finally, months later, it comes out.

That fear and frustration that used to catch my elbows at the bend lives inside of my jaw now. I am helpless to the vice that feels like it is trying to pry my teeth from their gummy homes one by one, starting from the back.

My stance on marriage hasn't changed much over the years, but has grown clearer as time moves on. It’s not something that has ever appealed to me. And I don’t intend to discourage those that believe in the structure of it. But I would love to articulate how I feel without alienating those readers, so I’m going to give it a shot.

Trying to make sense of the million little pieces my heart has been broken into because of your grotesque actions. My heart is broken, not for you and our time together. But for Nicole, and what I can only assume is a laundry list of silence names you've left behind. 

No matter how many times we spoke about dying, there was a fire in us that brought us back to life.

I adore silence. Nature. The clacking of my keyboard. The spinning of my pen in between my fingers. Not speaking, or attempting to listen and be a part of another's conversation. Just me and my mind--which sometimes backfires--conjuring or conversing within itself.

There's something about the roar in a city that slowly drives you insane. There's a reason why people take vacations, or resort back to the "good ol' days" before houses, and pitch tents. It's nice to be away from it all.

I've begun the process of rounding out my third decade on this planet. And nothing I have done seems to have cemented me as a successful adult, or dependable human. It's a frightening conclusion for one's mind to achieve.

The more of yourself you feel you have the ability to put into the words you intertwine, the clearer the liquor will be. Distill it. Soak the wooden pages in your voice. A detachment from brain to ink is extremely effortless to spot, and disingenuous phenomenology is a terribly tough chew.

I can still picture the face of ten-year-old Derrick Lamb, as our ignorantly despondent elementary school teacher informed him that his desire to reach the moon was a bit of a farfetched idea. It began a destructive conversation, that ultimately ended in Derrick changing his mind.

We've become accustomed to making decisions as individuals, based on the preconceived notions of our people as a collective. Dissolving the essence of each person as single entities in doing so.

Whether it's inspiration in the real world, or inspiration through someone else's creations, these flights of flattery, that we think another anything is good enough, neat enough, different enough, that we immediately want to create out of some sort of ritualistic sacrifice. Like an ode, or grave flower on the headstone of someone we probably don't even know.

When approached by a stranger, a reader, a friend, or loved one about my addiction to phenomenology, I lack the proper words to reach that point where one person understands the other. At an alarmingly sad average.