Category: Writers Block
As the anesthetics of ending lives and numbing pain for the last time flow throughout your bloodstream, know that it'll all be okay. With the heart that
is yours, safely locked within the confines of modern medicine, yeah it'll be okay. No walking down paved streets anymore, no waking at the earliest possible
hour to catch the sharpening sunrise from behind windows framed in teak wood, no more hours sitting up, watching the fireflies glow outside of the edges
of your vision as you think of the theory of relativity; spelling it out in only your language, the language of Jazz Fusion and silent conversations with
your best friend.
Why when I look into your eyes now, do I only see a pure and true acceptance? There is no hazel eyed stare that meets my blue eyed gaze, no lazy eye, there
is nothing but that true and pure acceptance. I can only assume it's because you're scared of putting your emotions on the front lines again, breaking down all
defenses to be told those words again: 'it's going to be okay.' Oh how clumsy and stupid they sound being spoken to empty air, and even when there spoken to you, they
still do feel rather stupid, yet I know you need to hear them; need to know that 'it's going to be okay.' Then again, maybe I just need to hear them more, only so I know it's all okay.
Your time comes close now. The months aren't even months now, there just weeks and soon they'll be days and hours and then seconds and then down to that
millisecond. People will cast tears over your face on accident, or they'll do it purposefully thinking that there tears are going to bring you back. The
grave will be dug, your body will be lowered, and then the dirt, the earth that you walked upon for 22 years will cover your existence. "ashes to ashes,
dust to dust", right? Nah, that wasn't how you wanted it to be. "Fuck death and all it's prefabricated stories of silently slipping away", that's your
motto. It'll always be your motto.
The days slip by in Morphine induced hazes, and your eyes grow duller and duller while those white-coated doctors talk in hushed whispers outside of your
hospital room door. My hand rests on your own, my mouth drawn together so I don't cry. "You can't cry for me, it'll Fuck me up, you know that." Yeah I
knew it, but nothing is ever easy, nothing, especially when your best friend is lying pathetically, lying on a bed, iV's crisscrossing over the frame work
of bones that once was a chest ...a body.
The doctors come in and out, them and there medicine bottles and charts with a crap load of slanted scribbling that I want to tare up and shove right back
into there faces. "Tactless writings", you murmur watching my eyes dart from the stark white uniform jackets to the clipboards that are clenched with smooth
hands. "I'm going to die, what's there left to say, to write about?"
Night comes and I must leave your side to go home and sleep; to attempt to dim out the conscious thoughts roaming throughout my brain. "Sleep is good, man,
it gives you an escape, use it to your advantage." Why were you so confident in stating that? Was it because you knew it to be true, or because you just
didn't want me to suffer with the thought of you dying all the time? What ever the case, I blocked it all out, I tried, oh God I tried, but you were in
my dreams, always there.
Whether they were memories or dreams, I did not know. I'd oft lay to rest at night and see your face in my head, hear your voice, that throaty laugh you'd let escape your lips when you thought I, your best friend wasn't even listening. I'd dream of past days with us two sitting on your front porch, taking in the sights and sounds of your Italian next-door neighbors always arguing. "Fred's gonna' be the death of his wife, and they've not even had kids yet", you'd whisper in my ear, as the insults would fly. OH how you're breath against my skin would make me feel alive; how your Midwestern accent would wash over my ears like a hug from a long-lost friend or lover.
Time stops for no one, and you were no exception. Dreary sky's and Midwestern Mondays took the fight out of you, as always happens to those we care for and
love. You, never wanting to die "embarrassed", were lying on your back, eyes closed, closed tight and surely glassy. Your mouth was etched in a lilting
half attempt at a smile, and your face peaceful, yet perplexed.
My touch upon your shoulder made your mouth open, but only your mouth, the white frame of teeth coated with saliva leered oh so very bright in the darkened
room. The hum of the machines that seemed to prolong your life set a contrast in my mind, that I'll never be able to truly except nor grasp. I said nothing,
fearing that if I did, I'd break everything and I'd be strapped with even more guilt. "Time will stand still when you want it to, won't it?" Never will I know where the words came from; they just blurted from my mouth, like the first bad word you say in your parents presence, or worse, in church.
"'Course not, but you can, if you want too", you said, softly smiling. "Can I?" my heart was racing and I was speaking only so I wouldn't break down and
fall apart. "Can I just please stand here and watch you; freeze this moment in my mind, keep your voice the only thing that i ever hear again?" my lips,
mouth, entire upper body was trembling, and I knew inevitably, that as much and as hard as I tried I'd not be able to hold up the rock-solid front for long.
"That's why there are memories, and that's why there is paper", you said, turning your head to the bed-side table to your left. I let my eyes fix upon the
table,and a notebook and a simple blue pen were the only things I saw. "Write what you feel, what you've seen the last three years, while I've been dieing."
From you the request was one I've heard a lot, always would you want me to write, and i, the person who'd get stuck at the first paragraph of an essay,
hated the word.
I let my eyes fixate upon the notebook, simple black cover, simple white pages, stupidly simple. I knew then as I focused on the two items lying there,
that I'd write for you, for me, for a chance at redemption.
"I will", I softly said, while my hand found your own. "Thanks, man", you whispered. I nodded, hoping to conceal the flow of tears that were coming hard
and fast toward my eyes. "If I'm going to die, you might as well stop trying to hide, it's your right to cry." "No", I said, my words sounding angry, harsh,
defeated. "Yes, go on, if anything, you'll be able to feel human again, mechanically walking around and holding your emotions back will get you nor I anywhere."
"I'll love you all the same, here or not."
So I did.
I cried, and cried, and fucking cried until my tears were no longer tears, they were mear mimics of salt water, until my head pounded from the pressure
in my eyes, and in my face, and until some person, a doctor, a nurse, someone picked me up and carried me to the nearest couch. "It's okays" and "he's
peacefully gone now" filled my ears, and I wanted to kill, to scream and break the world apart for taking that who I cared for, who I loved like they always told me to love life.
Soon enough the comforting hands lifted,and the people retired to there normal duties and I was left alone, my mind beginning to work again. A feeling of
absolution and tranquility settled over me as I stared around at the white walls of the room I was in, a room where they take people when they lose there lovers,
there friends or there family, and after they lose them, they go crazy. The 'looney bin', maybe? No, try an examining room.
'I cried while my best friend died' My thoughts were of that, only that, as I stood and walked from the white room. The nurses and orderlies seemed to be
occupied as I briskly walked down the hall to the room in which I left my sanity. The door was ajar and I opened it, not caring if anyone was there or
not. There were people, people everywhere.
A nurse was removing the tubes from your arms, and the monitors from your chest, and still others were cleaning,
sanctifying the room where you said your last words.
Your last words.
"I'll love you all the same, here or not."
A nurse picked up the notebook and pen and placed it on a chair that held some of your other belongings. Her rubber gloves made a swishing noise against
the cover, and that was what must've did it for me. I walked passed her, grabbed the notebook and pen, turned and headed out, glancing at you for the last
time. I knew I couldn't stay long for I'd be kicked out, or end up falling apart again.
I rushed from the hospital and headed to the first Star bucks, where I ordered Espresso-lined coffee, and the most sugar-loaded pastry I could. I opened
the book when I received my food, and stared at the notebook until I thought my eyes would close. Grainy ideas crept from the far recesses of my brain to implant themselves firmly in the forefront of my cortex. High on grief, Caffeine, and a burning desire to abide by your wishes, I began to shakily write.
---
I saw Fred yesterday. His wife still pesters him about 'the damn rose bushes!', but they're ironically, still together. Maybe Italians just have that will about them? Your other neighbor, the Chinese one, Lee Sing, the one who paints, is constructing a mural on the side of his house. It's a big thing, too. It looks exactly like the ocean floor, all these plants and seascapes dotting a pretty soft blue background. His landlord won't be too pleased, I'm sure. The rest of your street is quiet, almost deserted, really.
---
With my coffee gone, a paragraph written, I flipped the notebook closed, stood, payed the bill and walked outside into the rain. The streets of Detroit were crowded with the business types toting briefcases, newspapers, and cups of coffee, walking back to there jobs at the various law firms, doctors offices, and TV stations. My apartment was in the heart of downtown near the center of a college campus. Slipping my key card out of my pocket, I slid it through the front door, and walked in, heading for the elevators. Thumbing the 'up' button, I waited for the metallic swish of the doors. Soon enough, I was six floors above, and fumbling with my key. As the door opened, the smell of fresh paint hit my nose and suddenly, I was exhausted.
Locking the door, I half stumbled, half ran to the bathroom, where I sank to my knees and retired my stomach to the sewer pipes. My eyes again filled with tears, and I soon propelled myself backward, smacking the back of my head on the edge of the bathroom door, before dissolving into racking sobs that I'm sure traveled farther than I meant for them too. my body shook with the force of each intake of breath, and I soon realized I had no nurses and no white room to calm me, just a notebook. Just a fucking notebook with a paragraph of useless scribbling inside of it. Eventually I began to calm myself, and stood, shakily and moved slowly to the sink where I began to clean my face of tears and blood from a nose that had seen too much strain within the last hour.
Returning to my living room, I spotted the white book upon the floor. I knelt, picked it up, and headed for the kitchen to brew a pot of tea, and attempt to take stock of my situation. With a cup of mint tea and a pen I sat down at my Formica kitchen table and began to write, once again.
I talked of how much you changed me, of how your family was morning just as much as I was, of how I would eventually, in my own time, learn to 'be okay.' I lamented about how scared I was about living without my best friend and wrote about how we promised each other forever, and how forever just wasn't good enough for some. Teardrops dotted the pages as they soon filled, and by 12 AM the next morning, with red-rimmed eyes, and sleep deprivation creeping over me, I had half of the notebook filled with what we both wanted.
The days passed, the writing excursions became far and few between, what with college taking over my life again now that you were gone, but I never forgot to sit down at least once a day and pen if nothing, just a paragraph or two. People came and went, relationships rose, fell, and blew apart, and at the end of the day, week, or month I was left with the memories of you, me, and page after page of blank lines.
Before I knew it, a year to the day of your death was upon me, and I was left with one page of blank paper and a grave site.
---
You're house was sold not too long ago. I always would joke with you about you having a house before me, but now that it's gone, the jokes on me. The guy that moved in seems really nice, but he's not you. Fred and his wife are still there, and so, of course is Lee Sing, him and his various murals decorating every inch of his house. His landlord has still yet to say a word. I'm trying to remember how much I miss you, but now, it's just a big, blank void of empty pain, almost like a tooth that's still festering and never seems to get pulled. I know it's not what you want, but I've still yet to find the answers to questions I asked you before you died. Time never did freeze. I still love you just as much as I did before you left, and I know one day, like you, I'll 'be okay.'
Thank you, one last time.
It's sosososososososo amazing, Cort. It's beautiful and intense and painful and just ... amazing. I love it. I cried. Really I did. Only thing I can offer by way of criticism is that it's got a few technical errors, you're instead of your and the wrong there and such. Other than those, it's, yes, amazing.
MMM, 6 AM edits. I gotta' fix those.
Thank you, darlin'. I'm glad you liked it.
...No crying over my writing!
Cort, I remembre reading what I guess was the birth of this a couple of years ago. it was good then, now it's incredible. I love it, glad you found a way to write again. Hope this is the first of many more things to come.
Frankly, I really didn't intend to read the whole thing, I really didn't, but you made me read it all.
It was very good. I'm really impressed.
The theme--the passing of someone close to you--reminds me of "en memorium" by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Only thematicly, not stylistically. You have a style of your own.
Could you give us some background for this poem/essay?
Bob
Cortney,
This is absolutely breath-takingly stunning.
As the words of your writing are given to flow
I can not help but to have memories flash back ~
with each flash as it were..then..a washing of tears ~
upon my inner soul..
..and finding...
For me the moments that were so difficult have melted into months,
with the months giving way to a year...
...and yet...
finding that, Time Has Stood Still...in some respects
The buds just this day are breaking out from closed in shells
of the Maple tree just outside the window of my home..
...again, this writing is stunning.
Connie
Kev, Bob, and Miss Connie:
I'm sincerely greatful for all of the words you've penned fourth about my post. Thank you all, so much.
As for a bit of background about this essay as it were, I really don't have any. I read a story about someone with terminal brain cancer, and how he was dieing, and decided I wanted to write my own.
Hey court!
I'd attempted to post comments to this before, but the zone spazzed and yeah...lol. Well, I'd just like to say that while this story is indeed very sad, it's written very well! Your vivid descriptions of the everything from the hospital room to the objects lying about on the table really helped me as the reader to really get a good sense fo the mood of the story. Furthermore, I really enjoyed the way you wrote it. By that I mean that the first time i read it, I thought that this was a direct experience from your own life. Your writing really has a genuineness about it, and you really ahve successfully, for me at least, placed not only yourself, but the reader in the narrator's shoes!
Great job, and i look forward to reading more!
Iris
Iris:
I love to give my readers the feeling as though they're really there. That's what I intended to do with this whole piece.
If I come across more inspiration, I'll definitely post again.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read it.
No problem! Anytime!
Cortney. I firstly want to tell you how emotionally evocative this story is. Rarely am I touched by stories, excepting that they're but words upon a page, lines upon a screen, a tracery of ink upon processed fiber. Your writing here, however, extracts a sense of sad regret for what might or could have been, the bitter tang of losing something forever, the empty feeling of lifeless eternity.
I appreciate your representation of emotions, giving them true, human realism. I think I see this mostly at the end, where the journal writer has begun to forget his friend. As altruistic as we may be, time wipes away the memories, tears down the pictures of the past. Well do I know this, and am forced to reflect on just how much I remember of those who I've been intimately acquainted with who have passed away.
But for a few problems with grammar and semantics, the story is absolutely perfect.
Thank you for tugging the strings of a heart that sometimes needs to be reminded that it, despite all attempts, is still bound within a human cage.
Kai
Kai:
I tugged at your emotions, eh? So too, you tugged at my own.
I write to write. I write to relieve tension, to bring joy to those around me, and to also express feelings within myself that I can't bring myself to sometimes speak.
Thank you for reminding me of another reason to write. Joy felt over work is not often taken as pride in my case, but this time, well, it's going to have to be taken as such.
Omg Cort, this was really good. I often run through my head how the end will come for my friend and I could never imagine it. Maybe I didn't want to but this made me cry so much and face reality of it. Reality sucks by the way smile. Anyhow good writing.
Cort! First paragraph! OMG! So evocative! The mood and the regret and the whole life that's mourned in that one little, whimsical image, with the window and the jazz fusion and the theory of relativity and the language of whispers and.... So, the whole thing's great too, obviously, and the end has this real sense of emptiness and ongoing loss, even though some things are resolved and dealt with, but, I'm seriously in love with that first paragraph! Wow!
Oh my god courtney, that was just amazing. I'm like drying up my tears now, lol. Nicely written, the emotion, the pain, and yet he knew he had to go on. He had to forget, endure the pain, the suffering. anyway, excellent writing court, you definitely gave me a reason to cry today.
To hell with the first paragraph, I'm in love with the whole thing.
Without a doubt, the most touching thing I've read since The Green Mile.
Maria, Errin, and Jessica:
Thank you all for the reviews. I'm sorry I made you guys cry. Usually I never really think about how much emotion is invoked within my writing, I just write to sort of get the emotions out of my system,, you know?
Bauer:
Having my work loved by you, and set even remotely to that of King, makes me feel ... well, quite amazing and other things that words cannot and will not justify. Thank you so much.