My mouth is dry as I recount my thoughts sleep seems so far from here. Where is here but a passage in time, a breath emptying upon a page to speak little of recognition or rememberances. If I drift I am forgotten and yet if I remain no more can you find me than I can find myself.

I looked into her eyes, a mother of two devasted. Her son had ptsd and who was to blame? A war and a systems inability to offer enough service for those that give their lives. She came for help and my position demanded I send her elsewhere. I lent troubled eyes my ears for an hour or two. Threats had been made, nervous breakdowns clear for we each have been there destroying things that we treasure all for some sort of balance, to throw wreckage at our lives, to make what is seen as what is felt from within. She wanted someone to help him but he had a DUI, wrecked his ride she said and her other son was in prison. Dire times and the world ticks on so much unaware of ones crisis and a mothers tears. Pistols in a locked case and arguments strung with rage over images that aren't there, war destroys us piece by piece, the bullets fly half way across the world and this is what lands in my cup of joe. So behind on paperwork, I need to get rid of her but I can't. Is this compassion, is this what it means to pity or sympathise with our fellow man. Tissues are passed and tears are shed. The only outcome is 51/50 if he is still at home but she mentioned packed duffles, she mentioned nowhere to go, perhaps another homeless kid.

The world meshes back together as a stranger in tears hugs me. I go up to the counter to help someone else as the secretary stepped away. Are they helping anyone, why must I break away from my cocoon. Deep breath, we are part of a collective, we depend on one another and yet I think at times this limb has become green and must be loped off. The guy at the counter tells me I have something on my face. I wipe my face per his gestures and he imitates again. I thank him as he says its still there and then pauses to say its only the scar on my face. Is eyesite so bad, did he think it would be such an injustice for me to have something on my face.

This reminded me of the elderly woman that reached across a counter one time to touch my face. The scar is barely visable but she said she needed to wipe something of my face. It made me twitch, repulsion filled me to the brim and I boiled over. She was old pushing 80 or was it 90. Got to let these things go I say, but they surface now and again and somehow I barely see the ticking stroke of another day gone.

I did not manage to make it to the gym or tae kwon do today. Felt as though the emotion drain ate thru every nerve and sinew of my being. I passed out for an hour after watching something on hulu. I joined a writers forum in Sacramento through Craigslist but never really go. I find time enough to delete the invitations as if it helps me belong to something. Is it the same as going if I delete an email. These thoughts swim within the pools of my eyes.

My tongue still hurts, my nose is cold, and I just can't seem to look forward to tomorrow. Don't misunderstand this for depression, depression is not nature and thus I can not look forward to tomorrow for it is not in my nature to consider tomorrow. But still for a 23 year old needing a break from the hard knocks of life I can hope he has a tomorrow, I can hope that no one makes reference to a scar on my face, I can hope for those pizza fridays in gradeschool when life was recess and no one died.

I wonder if being to sheltered is good for the soul. You long to protect who you are and so easily it falls through the cracks of reality. Slowly everything known is chipped away and replaced by the essense of what is deemed necessary. Who dictated necessity, who create desire, who makes this gestures, these motions.

I visited xanga today for a moment after so much self reflection. I realize that after a few years everyone is gone. Did the world continue or did I stop. In such a place when paralysis takes me can I consider waking. Do I see this stream before me leading to the horizon as fortune?

The past haunts us, the future mocks us, and the present gives us joy. I wish to hold these seconds till all feeling becomes gray and the colors of this world drip from the canvas. The hand of god will clutch quill and ink drops shall splatter across the spirit till each concusion gives way to a new truth. I long for this and I do not relish its coming.

When ones voice fails do you chuckle?
Do we just mimic gestures and nod in the light of failure?
I have lingered so long before those eyes that judge and seek for more than this string of obsurd commentary,
Yet that presipus at the edge of oblivion forever shinning within those vacant pupils becons me forward as if you snare me with your discussion of fools and by such I dance as the fool.
Is this not what we deem a mockery of gods creation when absent is the mind and peers draw fourth daggers to slay what bit of soul remains. Nay you heed not the words and use some poison to etch away the pixels absorbed into the brain but the image shall not blur, and in time you see the film of your life whispered through the chaos of mundane moments but you shan't have regrets, how can we regret time taken, time lost, time given, time exploited and yet is it time or ourselves that have been lost, exploited, given for the name of art, humanity, existence. You are exiled and your dreams are nothing more than trinkets set before a child that is spoken to by those who hope for genius uncertain where the world will take such voyagers. So I hear the word stop, a child bellows it down the hall, an officer flashes their light at me as a body lays beside a vehicle, a co worker insists, the small world compatriot that wishes for peace as he serves me a breakfast burrito all whisper it. Because the eyes tell they have seen already too much and we can only hope to blur the rest or pray for dementia within our youth to ease the ache of heart and never know such truths.