LOST = heroine

GODDAMNIT!!!

December 5th, 2007, our petition for a fianceé visa was approved.

Four months of waiting and holding our breath. Finally we can breath.

Last night I dreamt I bought a blue guitar and I was jamming with my dad.

Guitar

To dream that you have or play a guitar, represents passion and emotion. It also relates to sexual connotations and may signal an erotic dream.

Blue

Blue represents truth, wisdom, heaven, eternity, devotion, tranquility, loyalty and openness. The presence of this color in your dream, may symbolize your spiritual guide and your optimism of the future. You have clarity of mind.

I kinda like that :-)

November 1st, 2007

I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!
I'M AND UNCA!!!

"It would be funny." The letter said.

"If she really knew why I decided to do what I did she would be worse off than she is now. It's just entertaining to see her play her little game, creating that world in which I had everything to do with how she feels now and she's left being the victim."

The letter had arrived that morning and had been sitting on the dining room table all afternoon until I got home from work. It was just waiting there, almost like a guest we were having over for dinner.

I went into my study to be alone and to read it. It was heavy, a number of pages folded up perfectly. His writing was still uncanny, his almost obsessive-compulsive habit of taking up almost every single blank space with writing.

He started off his letter with menial, typical things. The weather, work, the long-winded wait his girl and him are having to go through in order to make all this procedure as legal and crystal-clear as possible.

It wasn't until midway through the third page that things took the turn they usually do.

"She's still bitter and that's fine with me. I've had enough of feeling guilty of what I did, it makes fee like puking, almost hormonal. I don't intend to do a thing about it though, it's her life she's leading and if she wants to do it this way it's her own decision."

His hand writing, if you've seen it before is this perfect series of straight lines. Seen from far away you'd think he was only scribbling, not really writing, but taking a closer look you'd find these words in between words, two lines of text inside a single line of a ruled sheet. It's almost scary to look at.

"What she needs to remember though, is this: Even if she makes everyone believe that she had absolutely nothing to do with what happened, she still has to live with that resentment she has towards me, she still has to almost schedule certain part of her day to hate."

My eyes soon started to hurt from reading the letter. Reading his notebooks at length will do that to you. Suddenly you'd notice words moving, or you skipping a line because of how close together he writes them. I had to stand up and rub my eyes several times to let them rest. Looking out the window helps, that way your eyes remember what the normal world really looks like.

"But, like I was saying in the beginning. If she really knew why I did what I did she would probably hate me more than she does now. She thinks I left her for someone, when in fact I left her for something, which ultimately I didn't get anyways."

Those two words written in bolder writing, he never specified what it was but I had an idea.

"It's ironic how I had left her weeks before I had even met my future wife."

That's something that I had already known, but we never talked about. It was easy to see what was missing in his life.

"Life plays an unfair game with everyone. Time is supposed to help you heal, but it's only willing to help if you're willing to give something back. I lived through my penance, I gave myself as much shit and hard times as one man can give himself, but I became tired of it, I had enough of feeling like shit over something I had to do."

By this time I had grown used to his handwriting and I was flipping through the pages as if they were the a novel, the ones he always gave me a hard time for reading.

"I just hope this all ends for the best, the best being me far away from here, smoking a cigarette with my wife, watching a movie, our kitten sleeping soundly at our feet. I don't care about anything or anyone else right now, the time has come to give myself exactly what I've always wanted. Something I've already found."

His letter ended quite abruptly, I was almost sure that pages were missing so I searched in vain. Everything was there, all ten pages of words and thoughts. He had left months ago pursuing something, pursuing "his" thing, showing the world he deserves what he has and he had to do what he had to do.

"One thinks that in a relationship of several years feeling exactly same as you felt when that relationship began is the greatest feeling in the world. For me, it just felt like it was going nowhere."

He definitely wasn't "nowhere" anymore and, as far as I can see, he's starting to find the places he's been looking for all these years.

Like a home.

In the grammatically incorrect words of one of my favorite places...

"Jaded people are J A D E D!"

There are people who still cannot see to get over what happened. Big deal, a relationship got fucked. Everyone makes mistakes.

But what are you doing now? I haven't heard from you in so long. You left me hanging a few months ago saying that you had to leave to do something important and I haven't heard from you since. I know where you are, I just don't
know HOW you are.

Your old apartment is still there, still reeking of cigarette smoke, trash and dirtier things that I'd rather not make too public. I'm keeping it just the way I found it that day when I went to look for you and you weren't there, I only found the open door and all your stuff gone. I mean, not even a note to say goodbye?

I stayed in the apartment for a couple of days trying to breath in your life, I thought maybe it could've given me a small glimpse of what you were going through. I didn't get anything, not from the smell, or the empty notebooks you left behind. Who were you planning to write those for?

I know it's dangerous where you are right now and I have no idea where you found the courage to go back. I know of the people that are still there and the kind of threats they've thrown at you. I know about all the whining and cursing you still hear in the background, all those supposed mistakes you made while you were there, I don't think they're worth trying to fix, I think it's better just to let them rot instead of hiding them in a closet showing the world how weak you can be sometimes. Either that or you might just be lazy.

Are you still standing strong? Are you still convinced this is the best thing to do? Things here are as you left them, I haven't moved a thing just in case someday you come back or appear out of nowhere like you usually do. Very few times did I get a heads up whenever you showed up.

I still can't get that stupid idea out of my head. You, smoking. What a trip it was to believe that. I guess some things are just more surprising than others. I guess people down there still see you with a cigarette in your hand and tell you "What the hell are you doing?" Trust me, i get that all the time.

So is everyone else still around? Are they still bitching at your heels trying to change your mind or make you feel guilty? Do you feel guilty? Something tells me you don't, you wouldn't be doing what your doing if you were. Knowing you you'd still be hitting your head against the wall realizing how you could've done things a little better. It's just the way you are.

Anyway, I hope at least where you are you're finding what your looking for. Know that at any time you have a home that's far away, a room where to sleep and a friend to talk shit with. I've been dying to know what kind shit has been happening down there. The kind of shit that makes you feel better about yourself, the type of shit that makes you say "Hey, at least I'm not as irresponsible, mediocre, pathetic and whiny as them."

"At least I left this god-awful city. Something some people could never do."

Get over it already.

Flightless bird, American Mouth
Iron & Wine

I was a quick wet boy
Diving too deep for coins
All of your straight blind eyes
Wide on my plastic toys
And when the cops closed the fair
I cut my long baby hair
Stole me a dog-eared map
And called for you everywhere

Have I found you?
Flightless bird, jealous, weeping
Or lost you?
American mouth
Big bill looming

Now I’m a fat house cat
Cursing my sore blunt tongue
Watching the warm poison rats
Curl through the wide/white fence cracks
Kissing on magazine photos
Those fishing lures thrown in the cold and clean
Blood of Christ mountain stream

Have I found you?
Flightless bird, brown hair bleeding
Or lost you?
American mouth
Big bill, stuck going down

-0-

   What does a life-time of search brought me?  
   A life-time looking for the right details to fill in the numbers of a life should be.    The colors acquiring shape, the shapes building a whole different whole.

   "An American mouth..." an ample embrace and love, a smile as simple and true, without fears, without resentments, without doubts.  I've found more than I had baragained for.  I played my cards and played them right.

   A farm and a ticking house, scared sheep, lost guineas and dead ducks, letting the fire in the yards behind that old house dress us all the same in it's warmth, hearing the thunder land nearby unsure of how to come without frightening us, wanting our company, wanting our life.

   The friendly dogs with clumsyness and slobber, undressing memories on top of the table around a piece of peanut butter pie.  Walking the length of the porch at night, smoke from our hands filling our lungs with floatings words.

   Dreaming in the ticking house, sleeping on a lumpy couch woken up be kisses from tongues other than yours.

   A ticking house, a peanut butter pie, animals and a farm, an aritficial pond and dead ducks.

Resurrection Fern
Iron & Wine

In our days
We will live
Like our ghosts will live

Pitching glass at the cornfield crows
And folding clothes
Like stubborn boys across the road
We'll keep everything

Grandma's gun and the black bear claw
That took her dog
When sister always says, "Amen"
We won't hear anything

And ten car trains
We take that word
That fledgling bird
And the fallen house
Across the way
It'll keep everything

The babies' breath, our bravery wasted and our shame

And we'll undress beside the ashes of the fire
Both our tender bellies wound in baling wire
All the more a pair of underwater pearls
Than the oak tree and its resurrection fern

In our days
We will say
What our ghosts will say

We gave the world
What it saw fit
And what we get

Like stubborn boys
With big green eyes
We'll see everything

And the tender shade
Of the autumn leaves
And the buzzard's wing

And we'll undress beside the ashes of the fire
Our tender bellies are wound around in baling wire
All the more a pair of underwater pearls
Than the oak tree and its resurrection fern

-0-

God damn you , Sam Beam...

...and thank you.

Star Mile

Oh doubt in the girl by your side
She's feeding your pride
As you go for a ride down the star mile

Worlds arise as she lets you come in
A duo begins
To the Hollywood din of lonely

Chorus:
And all the gold dust in her eyes won't reform into rain
You had and lost the one thing
You kept in a safe place
Remember the face
Of the girl who made you her own
And how you left her alone

All's well at the base of the hill
You might need to fill
a prescription to kill off the silence.

Look down from your tower on high and take in the night
Look her right in the eye
She'll listen

(Chorus)

Life comes to those that are true
The regular news
Over playing the blues with the light on

And if you burn the road that'll lead you back to her in time
I'll watch you turn to stone
Can't find the sublime

She's moving on without you
The tide breaks
You watch the stars fade
They gather you back to their home
I guess it's better than being alone

-Joshua Radin

-o-

"How much my life has changed in the last 6 years." He thought as he walked himself across the park, it wasn't until he read to himself his past journals that he realized how much has faded while the rest has sharpened. Even the color of his eyes and the shape of his mouth has changed. He sometimes hides his lips in facial scruffy facial hair just so that he can pretend he's smiling.

This new place, these trees and sidewalks, these broken benches and different songs from different birds. He had left so much behind with only a gamble in his hands, a gamble for something he wasn't quite sure what it was.

These past six years, they've been something more than the words he's put into the pages and images he carries underneath his arm; a thousand pens could never truly describe that time, even if he knew enough words to write that much.

His shoes are worn down and stained with the mistakes and tears he's shed and the people he's stepped on, ask him and he'll tell you "I'm not proud of of that." He'll say it with the sincerity of an infant but the guilt of a criminal. He can't help but feel ashamed of what he could not change in himself and the world around him, he thought he was stronger, healthier, better that what he now realized he was...

... his own written words did not lie, he wrote them himself. As much as had lied to himself, his words, his notebooks were there and they told a different story. For at that time he had transformed from something so innocent and strong to something so evil and unrecognizable. Exactly what he had for long despised.

He crossed the the park until it became a busy street, there he saw a trash can, for a moment he thought to himself "I could en this here. I could free myself from this burden a carry in my hand and become someone new." But even then, when he thought of that he was already walking away and back to his own place, where someone was waiting for him, where someone who did not have to know about past was making sure everything was perfect for him, his black coffee with a teaspoon of sugar, his favorite food, empty ashtrays to fill up again.

No one had to know, and he only had to forgive himself to forget.

"I need to write. HOly -shit do I need to write down some words." He said while lighting up another cigarette.

Things had changed since the last time he was around. I cant say he's better but I definitely cannot say that he's worse. It's difficult to explain, his face was the same but his voice was different, and I'm not talking about a change from the smoking, it was more like an elder speaking, a seasoned old man telling his tales.

"So, I'm getting married..." He told me with a smile. "It's the strangest feeling in the world. I wasn't nervous or anxious to propose, it all came so natural to me. It was as if I had breathed the words out."

He had told me about the girl months before but he never brought it up again, I had thought that nothing had come from it and that, like most things in his life, it had come to a premature end.

I knew life had been hard on him these past couple of years and during that time I wouldn't have been surprised if had gotten a call telling me that he had somehow died by his own hand. Now he's a changed man, like I said before, not better or worse, just more suited for what's to come.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked in between the smoke coming from his lips.

"As sure as I've ever been. For the first time there wasn't any fear or hesitation, I knew then that I had to take that momentum further and use for what I wanted to accomplish. I still have things to work out by myself but I know at least that part of my life is set."

I could still see smoke billowing from his mouth with every word he said, as if he hadn't blown it all out before he uttered his answer.

"Things are going to change as they always have." He continued, with his cigarette hanging from his lips. " Things are already changing in other people that at one point meant the world for me, but now I can't allow myself to be pushed to the brink of guilt. I did what I had to do to survive and now I'm picking up the fruit of that decision and it's one whose taste I'm enjoying."

He took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out, building a wall of smoke around him that hazed the edges of his face and gave the his word movement and a presence while traveling through the smoke.

"it's that I'm relishing in the guilt, it's more that I've learned to live with it as a part of who I am. I had to unintentionally hurt people to get myself where I am., anyone would do the same, everyone has."

That last comment made me look down to the ground and realize how right he was. People hurt and get hurt, people get over it and people like to get stuck on it. He's had his war and although he's far from winning it he's given himself the opportunity of fighting back.

I guess we all need that. He had changed.

I guess everyone needs a little change.

I'm hitched!

Engaged at least hehehe.

Wow, what a trip!

I might be "popping" this soon...

-“It’s amazing how easy it is...” It began. I had received his letter a couple of days go, actually the morning after he had stopped by and dented my wife’s new dining room table. It meant that he had sent it before that night. I was afraid it would be some sort of suicide letter.

The envelope had no return address, just my name and my address in his handwriting. The zip code he wrote down was incorrect. The back of the envelope was taped up, it’s what he does, like an elderly person he’s a bit paranoid when it comes to mailing something this personal.

I hadn’t opened until this morning, two days after I had gotten it. I don’t know why, I guess I felt scared about what was inside. I didn’t want to see the words “farewell” or “I’m going to be taking my own life” and have that burden on my shoulders, the burden of having him sitting right beside me and not being able to save him, not even noticing he wanted to be saved.

I had read the letter a couple of times since I’ve opened it, just trying to see if I could enter his mind, if I could see what he was thinking. The first time it had given me a headache, his handwriting is extremely neat but difficult to read. It’s like trying to read a cuneiform scripture from times long passed in a language forgotten or dead.

-“It’s amazing how easy it is, I mean, to surrender all your hopes, your dreams and place them in the hands of a person that, most likely, does not want you here. To them I’m just taking someone else’s place, to them I’m just someone that wants something better, I’m nothing more than a poverty stricken dreamer, a possible terrorist.”

His words filled my head and I could feel them becoming the wallpaper inside my mind. Like a text flashed on a marquee every word had it’s own space and time to be read, it’s own light and shine.

-“I’m tired of it all. I’ve done everything I can and still the situations never change. Even if the sun shines brightly outside, inside my apartment it’s still dark, gloomy, depressing, almost as if all around me was dead or dying.”

I could see words crossed out where he had made mistakes or chosen a –more appropriate term. His words were the letter, he was in the letter, tears, sweat, blood, memories, disappointments, betrayals, everything was there even if he did not talk about it.

-“As you already might know, my time is running out. I can’t stay here forever, I can’t become another statistic of poverty or illicitness, I cannot become someone who couldn’t achieve anything if it wasn’t through someone else’s hands. I already owe too many people too much and I don’t think I could ever repay them. I’m stuck between my principles and the rest of the world.”

He always had his dignity. It could’ve been his downfall or his biggest asset but, most of time, he couldn’t help but notice that it got in the way.

-“I’ll be absent from our talks for a while again. I don’t think I’ll be going away anywhere or running away to try and find something better. I’m going to stay here and think, write and decide what my life is going to be. It’s already hell, I don’t think it could get any worse than it already is. Am I wrong?”

I truly hope your right.

He had been distant all afternoon. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought but even his words seemed to be uttered from a very distant place. We were at my home, my wife and kids had gone away to do some shopping, the truth being that my wife really didn’t like his company or having him around the boys, she said he scared her.

He called me at work asking me if he could stop by my house that evening and talk. How could I deny that?

The beer bottles were lining up on the table as the conversation went on, he was asking me about my life, work and family. I on the other hand had no idea what to ask him.

-“Remember that girl I talked to you about?” He said, finally landing back in my living-room, returning from whatever memory he was in.

-“Which one?” I replied. There had been so many up to this point.

-“The cowgirl. You know, the one I met before everyone else.”

-“Oh. Yeah, I think I know who you’re talking about.” I said trying to trace back through all the names and faces I remembered. -“What about her?”

-“She’s disappeared.” He said calmly, still with me, still in the living room.

-“She what?!” I didn’t know if I was surprised or concerned. He always spoke so vaguely. Last time he told me he was raped all he meant was that someone had stolen his personal journal. I guess in a way he was. I remember that day because I went to bed thinking that that person who stole it had an inside look to his life that I lacked.

-“She disappeared. I mean, she’s gone. I’ve been trying to communicate with her and I haven’t heard from her in months.” He paused. “I think she doesn’t want my friendship ever since what happened.” He sighed as he said this, as if going through his past again, through that specific moment that changed everything.

There was a moment of silence he used to take a drink from his beer. It was his sixth and I was trailing back on my third. The alcohol was making him speak and it opening up my ears to his words. It had been months since he and I spoke like this.

-“Nothing really happened between the two of you.” I said. “Is it really bothering that much?”

-“I’m not sure. I can’t really say if it’s that what is bothering me. It’s just me and the way I am, I guess, but it makes me think about the kind of person she is.”

-“What do you mean?” I asked after finishing m beer and setting it down on the brand new coasters my wife bought. She always getting on my hide over not taking care of the furniture.

-“She needed someone like me, I think. At least the person I was back then. I think she needed and outside opinion of her life from someone that hadn’t experienced it. I was there and she was there, she had the questions and I thought I had all the answers then.”

It felt like it took a lot out of him to say all that. I knew who he was talking about and I understood what he meant.

-“I mean…” He went on. “… I don’t feel as if she used me or anything. I don’t have any bad feelings toward and I can’t really resent what she did. It’s just that I actually put an effort into trying to help her find direction and answers to what she was looking for. I still don’t know what she was looking for though. I think it was just to realize that there was someone else like her.”

My attention was fixed to his words. He hadn’t talked like this in so long. The last few talks we had he had been so quiet with him just asking question, trying to find answers to his own problems, I guess.

It was getting dark outside as he stared though the window into the street.

-“You have a very nice life.” He finally broke the silence. “I envy how you’ve managed to stay on the road to what you’ve always wanted.”

Those were his last words before he tapped the beer bottle on the table leaving a small dent on the surface and saying goodbye. He hasn’t found any answers, only more questions and all the roads he’s walking have signs in languages he doesn’t understand. He once told me that he felt as if he didn’t belong in this world, almost like he was born without that gene everyone has that lets them walk over other people without feeling remorse.

He walked out of my home putting his hand on my shoulder and saying “I envy you so much.”

All I could think of though was what I was going to say to my wife to try to explain the dent on her new dining table.

He had told he'd be going, that he'd be trying his best to be able to stay. This country of "opportunities" is what he wanted for himself. Not just only that but what he already had here. It is strange though how people like him are penalized for doing things the right way, the endorsed way, the legal way. He wonders to himself how it's no wonder so many people come here illegally.

He went to the city, he left the snow thinking he would find a warmer place there, or at least a more comfortable one. All he found was a complicated maze of streets, highways and bypasses that told him so much yet not where he wanted to go. He told me as he laughed, "I got lost a couple of times." Now that I think about it, that laugh seemed to be marked with a hint of irony.

We talked over cheap coffee and even cheaper snack foods at his more-than-normal run down apartment. If you had been me you could've seen how systematically his way of life got closer and closer to poverty. His coffee tasted more like water painted brown and scented with caffeine, his food was old and stale. "Hey! It's still edible." He said, "And if it's still edible it's still good." Half of what we ate was over it's expiration date.

His cigarettes hadn't changed and the fact that most of his trash consisted of ash and cigarette butts told me that it was a habit he wasn't prepared to lose. Maybe it was what little good he still had around him, his way of killing himself slowly without having to blame anyone except himself. He hadn't even emptied his ashtray, he does this because I've caught him several times digging through it trying to find a butt with still enough tobacco to light up. I offered him to buy him a pack but all he said was "It's OK. I'm trying to quit anyway."

The paints around the kitchen was peeling off. It wasn't the best apartment around but you couldn't really see that when he first moved in, he kept it tidy and clean, at least as much as he could. Now it looks as though he's lived here a few years without ever taking the trash out. I can honestly say that his cat was better nourished than he is right now. His face was paler than usual, his body looked frail and skinny, he looked like a skeleton wrapped in skin colored saran-wrap, the plastic barely holding on. You could almost see the skin on hi chest move from his heartbeats. He had changed.

We kept talking until late, he offered me the bed if i didn't feel comfortable driving that late in that neighborhood. I told him that it was alright and that I should be going back home anyways, "I have to wake up early tomorrow to go somewhere." I didn't say the word "work" because I did not want to upset him or make him feel worse.

He's having a hard time as it is.

9 Crimes

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I'd do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I'd do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you
It's the wrong time
but she's pulling me through
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

Is that alright?
Is that alright?
Is that alright with you?
Is that alright?
Is that alright?
Is that alright with you?

No...

“La vida pasa y ni tú ni yo somos alguien para detener ese ritmo que ha puesto en marcha cosas mas grandes que nosotros.”

Los eventos y acontecimientos realmente pequeños del día de hoy me recuerdan a algo que escribí el año pasado, algo de lo que estoy plenamente de acuerdo y creo que es una verdad universal. Me ha molestado desde que he tenido que aceptar tal hecho. La vida se convierte en una maldita responsabilidad y deja de ser, en todos sus aspectos, una vida.

El momento del que estoy del que estoy hablando es ese instante donde la persona deja de valer mas que la educación que recibió y el dinero que gana, ese momento tan frágil donde consideran a uno “adulto” y tiene que luchar contra todas las corrientes en su contra.

Ganas dinero, pagas impuestos, consumes, consumes y consumes para sobrevivir y evitar, no solo una muerte natural sino, una muerte social. Aún está en discusión cual de las dos es peor.

Desconozco desde cuando remonta esto, tal vez siempre ha sido así pero antes no había tanta competencia por lo poco que había. Aún hoy hay demasiada gente y no ha suficiente para todos incluso con todo lo que se produce.

Tal vez deberían existir menos de “nosotros”, tal vez deberíamos encontrar la manera de saber quien es útil y quien no para entonces colocar a esas personas que se puedan aprovechar y echar de menos a las que sobran.

Yo me considero uno de los que sobran y debería ser echado de menos. Sería mas fácil exterminar a todo aquel que no produzca y dejar a los responsables, un contado elite que tenga las facultades adecuadas, no, mas bien perfectas para llevar a cabo y aprovechar el espacio que fue otorgado. Deshacernos de los mantenidos como yo que gastan el espacio y el oxígeno que alguien más apto podría ocupar.

Mi tiempo aquí se acaba, los se. Tengo mis días contados ya sea por mismo o por aquellos que me “mantienen” vivo.

Es hora de desaprovechar mas oxígeno y espacio.

Best crap this side of the border.

I had a nightmare last night, a dream and, for me it is very unusual to actually remember my dreams. I don't regurlaly get a decent enough night's sleep o be able to remember details. Yesterday I did.

I wont name names, I wont give details, just what I remember after a couple hours of being awake and losing the haze.

I remember people and things dying all around me, people that have been in my life for the longest time and others that have only arrived recently, they all died. The one I remember the most, she was bleeding from her forehead and it was dripping down her face, she was crying and she said to me before she passed: "How could you do this to us?"

The crimson stains were on my hands and the floor, people were dropping dead all around me and I couldn't do anything to stop it. Even Malachi, my cat, he was all shriveled, hairless and the size of a mouse. I tried to feed him and give him water but nothing worked.

I love to dream but I hate dreams like these, it wasn't that people were dying it was that I couldn't do anything to stop it from happening.

As I woke up I couldn't take the image of her bloodstained face saying those words to me, as if all the pain, all that suffering her and the people around were going through was my fault when I had absolutely no idea what I had done.

So it's early and I'm awake, the first day I was allowed to remain in bed I found my nightmare. I hate my sleepless nights.

By this time tomorrow I will become proud parent of a little boy.

His name...

"Balls"

Pictures very soon

"Time and all you took..."

I'm starting something out of nothing, I'm here with what little I have and I'm trying to start something, something out of nothing. I'm taking my chances, playing the roulette, using my best hand if ever had one, I'm here to "turn" into something.

Erie is a new place for me, even if I lived here last year, now I'm here for completely different reason, I'm here to build something people call a future.

"A future? What in the world is that?"

I don't know personally, I've lived my life day-per-day that I'm not sure how to plan for this so-called future. It's scary as hell, it's intimidating, it's what I've ever done.

"So, how am I supposed to do this?"