when I was 16 my best friend killed himself.

She stood, she stood between the leaves, and the overgrown grass, she moved around it, as if a part of the ongoing motion of the wind between the flowers.

as if she were aesthetics aligning into a structure. if my heart were vital, it would have

crumbled in frustration.

And I step then tread lightly, glimpse from a distance, then feel as if all that hold

me together disintegrate, all the so called steadfast connective tissue .cluster .

I am a smell, dismissible captive of the arts, and a living breathing , aging, cluttering, human, fragile, glorious work of utter art, only highlights my spec-like existence..‬

‪I cling and I cling, as she becomes, with such ease.

And I realize what I am and realization stifles me., ‬

ugly and homely in my beast-like existence, I dare wish.. ‬

,crippled by my mundane days and ways.‬

‪I fall back onto melancholy. When ones chest rises and roars to plea for ease

When ones skin damp with days of nothing attracts migration of molds.‬

‪when I was 16 my days were laughter and girls and grades, my days were only dripped upon by dreams,

there wasn't a thing grosom or cruel about them,untill eddie comited suicide

Then the quite mornings presiding the news of eddies suicide‪,‬ existence vastend and tightened in both extremes that killed daily breath and routine and the small little dismissible actions taken to insure survival‪,‬ clogged windows and foggy air‪,‬ a november avalanche of rain‪,‬ people in umbrellas and raincoats‪,‬ and the world in its changing seasons and ordernairy folk getting to work and school was not in the most microscopic bits displaced at the loss‪,‬ even self empossed loss of an infint.‬

in books and coffee cups‪,‬ on teachers faces‪,‬ in the bad rythem of 90s boy band music‪,‬ in the ghettos we all avoided‪,‬ in every corner of every structure words and images splattered across everything‪:‬

suiside.

women with avalanch, waterfall, golden rain of locks would intertwine fingers, then leap off towers.‬

children left in deserted houses would plunge knifes into their not fully developed abdomens‪.‬

and in my hormone driven teenage figure I would be angry‪,‬ I would be sit on an ancient fire of all my ansestering rebels crippled and stationary‪.‬

I had lost a being that wanted to be lost‪.‬

that‪,‬ couldn't bare the horror that I personally never truly felt until I lost him‪,‬ as if‪,‬ he were telling me‪,‬ in his own preverse way‪,‬ how he felt‪.‬

eddi awaked to live‪.‬

eddi‪,‬ was a civil war‪.‬

doomed he was, most of him, belonged to dreams,‬ and whenever he had these moments of being slow and unmotivated‪,‬ these ‪"‬moods‪"‬ that would last for weeks where he would invite me over to his house and make me sit with him‪,‬ as he was fully dressed and drenched in a bath tub‪,‬ quitly, in very little motion, seductive in his sadnesss, with very littl words would point to a book and wait for me to read it for him‪.‬

‪.‬

,‬ later on he'd change to a fresh shirt and pants and we would eat dinner and do our homeworks together‪.‬

‬at other days he would be the most motivated overachieving machine their was‪,‬ handing projects the mment he were assigned to them

once‪,‬ he gave me a ply he wrote in a weak‪.‬

it was not especially fantastic‪,‬ but it was obviously really worked on‪.‬

but that was just eddi in his constant attempts at eccentric intense extremeness‪,‬ his fluctuations between beliefs of vastly splattered possibiityies‪,‬ and deadends‪.‬

when he comitied suicide‪,‬ despite his ‪"‬moods‪"‬ I was rained upon‪,‬ clutterd with ,end‪.‬

it was not anything I ever foresaw‪,‬ anything I ever even considers‪,‬ and for a phycologicly considered abnormal amount of time I fully did not believe it‪.‬

I took my bike‪,‬ that had a ribbon tied over it that eddi had given me on my 15th birthday that said‪ " ‬But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it “off, and then ‪‬we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

-lord byron.

and rode it to eddies house, knocking on the door, his pale faced, lifeless mother opened the door for me.

tragedy takes its shape in the air most of all, once it occurs it is the air it mostly infests, the coffee table in the background of this image of his mother opening the door for me and looking at me with such intense attachment as if I were her lifeless son who is now lying on a cold metal bed, now is so dark and unfamiliar, tinted , and purged upon with the air of tragedy.

she let me in and rambled things like "he liked you so much , my eddi, did you know that?" and she would take in a great number of shallow breaths, her purple nails and purple lips contrasting everything els in her pasty white existence " just last week he had a poem published in the chicago times, such a beautiful boy." she would say and draw in a large amount of air that would collide against her wind pipe making the most terrifying sound as if the small particles of air are little firemen gliding down her throat to putt out the flames in her loins.

and I would walk to his room, his round shaped hell hole of a room I have memorized by heart, it hadent always been a hell hole obviously.

I came in, attacted by the particles of air for the first time, as if the room, perversely welcomes me into a certin unintangible end.

I sat on the bed, lyed down silently, watched the roof, felt the torn fabric of his desk chair, refusing to believe I ever knew this room, I looked at the wall cover and glued and exploded upon with posters and dreams and life unhindered.

I couldn't tell if this was text book living man's wall, or its very reseprocal.

------------------------------

it has been cold, rainy and overall deeply creamy and Gothic.

I sometimes wounder, if it really is the weather, or merely the self inflicted layer of gloom atop my sight?

I sit on the bench , legs crossed, glasses on, blowing my nose, as it turns flushed red, the news paper rough against my freezing fingertips.

I am not exactly proud of what I do, how I sneak in, how I creep in, how I have made the very essance of my life: the unseen thoughts of a beautiful, 5'5ft 120lbs, 22 year old girl.

she stratches her legs threw the gate, and I am driven by mere impulses, by the chance of temoprary, intoxicaited uplift, caused by the very look of her, I chase and I chase and I stare, gush , glance, peek.

from the farthes distance possible, but the closest one needed. just close enough for the air that touches her to touch me, befor it gets lost in the dump and the colliding figurs of new york citizens.

she gets on the subway as she useually dose, today she waers a light fabriced dress, and white sneakker.

oh, wretched, tamed, abandoned existance

eddi was, to an extenct, abnoctious.

and I know not tospeak badly of the dead or whatever, but to fully describe to you the kind of man he was, well man child, boy, whatever term apropriet,consequently, to fully describe to you my self, we weren't deeply alike or nothing, rather his alpha existanceditectly effected mine and my way of thinking andobtaintig livelihood, furthermore consequently why I choose to follow this little girl.

he was abnoctious and pretentious, he would get these moment in which he were so excited at all the little poems and paintings he's produces all the little artistic existence he had made for himself, believing he were the textbook definition of child prodigy, goddam arthur rumbaed, down right woolfgang moatzart.

but he thought I hd a miniature talent with my painting.

sitting underneath the trees of our school yard, self inflatedly reading his norton anthology of poetry he would look up to me with hall a sigh and say " you know I think you could really do something with that brush of yours"

I would flitter a bit, I admired him, he was a few months younger than I but I admired him deeply.

in depression, there is not order, there is not way of prediction of symptoms and\or when is one most or least likely to get better or give up.

of course phycologist will tell you different, but, what do they know.

there were days he came t school in his ripped dinem jacket for a month, a month the exact same jacket, filling it, filling the particles of air between the looser and looser threads with the bits of daily familiarity.

the morning coffee and distant troubling music, the classes after classes of hand me down bullshit, the cafeteria food, the sneaked in literature, and life baring its self between the crakes of rott and end and doom in everycorner of the school yard.

I didn't really see much of this back then.

my best friend killed himself. he decided, with full belief, I now believe, one day, to rap a rope around his nick's youthful skin and jump off a chair.

he decided, with the rush of adolescent hormones, to cripple his existence to remain for however time people will remember him, as nothing but a child, as proof that life is so horrid, that a privileged, white, infant, would rather end it.

I don't know what that says about him, or me, or the lives we led, or existence unhindered.

what I know is yesterday I crawled to the pits of self pity and followed that girl to her apartment.

 I sat in my car watching her rather larg window that almost invites men in.

I wondered how many other men stared outside her window and was suddenly rained upon with avalanches of jealousy.

I was not jelious of the men in her bed, I was jelious of the ones staring outside her window.

she was not a lover, she was a muse, a work of art, solid , living proof, that filthy streets and muzzled hearts do not murder aesthetics, aesthetics live in a mediocre looking building eating lasagna at 10 pm.

I lit a cigeret, and wondered what peace felt like, my being a crumble, a tangle, a mass of all things nerve ricking and paranoid, peace is , once more, a myth.

but what are myths, myths are things spoken of, yet unseen , unheard, unexpirianced, myths are things who's existence is unproved, who's unexistance is equally unproved.

the likelihood of their existence is purely subjective.

and my judging of their existence is deeply bias.

I have never felt peace, its only natural I wouldn't believe it existed.

this girl, this child, pure and unconquered with lifes dogmas, probably knows peas as much as anyone should.

I know the very history of this world, I have read it over and over again, each time my psudo-revelations rotates and turns into something new interlay.

overtime, I become all the more estranged and distant, each time, I experience all the less, the shit going on inside of me, being in any sort of relation to the shit going on with the living, breathing, feeding, shitting organisms stuffed with complex thoughts and emotions and down right - essincieal to phycologicl homeostasis-illousions that , and in fact, peace is not a myth.

I am not sure what it is though, that I occasionally feel, it is not peace I know, it is a whim of something though.

when nothing begins to desplace me, when I am coated with a thin layer of stolen pleasures of cigarets and music and coffee, and I stop caring that I cannot produce what they can.

when I am ok with being forgotten.

I am not anything fancy, just ok.

there are nights, most of all there are nights, nights above and byond everything when I have scraped the earths roots, and I turn to god, and I am a sinner I know, I am terrible I know, I wrong the earth and its tiny little people, and I wrong my self more than anything.

but I come to god and I inaudibly wheap, and life is not terror, there is something, maybe not peace, but, there is something.

I don't know if eddi weaned to god, I don't know if lord byron weeped to god, I don't know if she weeps to god.

but I weep to god, ad then I get up and I make a cup of tea and I watch the sunrise, not necesiraly peacefully, but something for sure.