Why do flowers bloom when they’re destined to die?

Suppose it’s just for a moment of sunshine and rain,

To wither and die only for the cycle to start again.

Like the songs that birds sing which fall on deaf ears;

Carried in the wind of long-forgotten memories,

Through trees without leaves on mountaintops to barren fields below.


Why do they sing,

When their songs will die?


Why does the sun still cast its light on blue skies?

For it too will go dark as the universe grows old,

To drift in eternal decay along the path where death strolls.

Like flowing rivers to dust turned in old years;

Where dreams lay in sad silence by headstones with no name,

In desolate graveyards and moldy tombs they found far below.


Why do they dream,

When their dreams will die?


Why do they continue to live with this lie?

A foolish belief of purpose and that of self-worth,

That somehow they matter in life as if not dust on this earth.

Like shifting shadows that lurk in deepest fears;

The cold presence of death unseen stands eagerly by,

To claim the lost we are for his domain of the void below.


Why do they live,

When they are destined to die?


Author’s Note:

Why do we live when we are destined to die?

That’s the question of the ages.  Are we an evolutionary blip in the cosmic time scale?  Perhaps part of a much larger community in the universe of which we’ve yet to find once we’re deemed ready by their council.  Or maybe we were made to serve a higher power, and our time here is but a test of our character and faith.  All things die, and in an ever-expanding universe (in theory), eventually the stars will go dark.  Our memories lost forever in the void, and the monuments we’ve built reduced to drifting particles along a wave of energy that once fueled life on our planet.  Does what we do matter, or is it all done in vain?

What’s the point when our memories will fade, and our names are forgotten as the headstones decay?  To pass beyond the great veil at the end of life as our bodies return to dust.  Life is a gift, and though we will reach the inevitable end one day, the path ahead still lies before us.  Even if there is just a moment of happiness or joy, it’s still a moment more than none.  A moment to be enjoyed in the short time we have.  A moment, or day, to be seized.  But not in pride of one’s self-worth, for all the riches in the world have no more value than the dirt beneath our feet.

Is it worth finding purpose and a meaningful life in the face of an otherwise futile existence?  Perhaps in time, I too may find meaning before it’s too late, and walk among those who are no longer lost.  Without meaning or purpose, we are but dust blowing in the wind, lost in futility.


Tying the Knot

Last month, my brother married the woman he’s been with for the better part of the past decade.  Rather than a traditional wedding, they opted for a handfasting ceremony without the formal attire.  It was different, but beautiful nonetheless.  What is handfasting you might ask?  Handfasting is a ceremony in which the wedded partners take each others hands while their hands are tied by one or more cords/ribbons, resulting in a literal “tying the knot.”  The term dates back to 16th/17th century Scotland according to Wikipedia.  Although this type of ceremony is usually associated with Pagan or Wiccan culture, it has recently been used more often in secular and even religious weddings.  Despite whatever kind of ritual or ceremony is chosen in a marriage, one thing remains the same: It is a union between two people, two lives; a lifelong commitment to one another that is born out of love, and the willingness to endure the better or worse parts until the end.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about tying the knot.  Not the kind of knot that joins two lives, but rather the kind that separates life from the individual.

“6 to 8 will do just fine;

But if superstition serves,

Loop the knot 13 times.”

That little jingle came to me as I was doing some fact-finding on hangman’s knots.  By now, you’ve probably figured out that the knot I’m referring to is symbolic for hanging, and in this case – suicide.  Unlike the term used for marriage where tying the knot symbolizes the unity between two people, tying the knot in this case symbolizes the path to suicide, and suicide itself – the spiraling slopes of madness, suffocation of life; and ultimately cutting off the lifeblood entirely for a very permanent death.  While suicide in itself is the instantaneous act of finality, the path to it begins at suicidal ideation and eventually reaches a point where acting on those thoughts take place.  Whatever the method may be, they all lead to the dreadful or fantasized irreversible act.  The only exception to the instantaneous part (unless a clumsy person misses their mark, doesn’t jump from high enough, or tied the rope to a beam that doesn’t support their weight), are the pills/poison not taken at a high enough dosage (carbon monoxide aside).  Unless some very lethal toxins are used such as cyanide, arsenic, or belladonna, chances are it will take a very uncomfortable while for the job to be done leaving the window of opportunity open to being saved, unfortunately.  Although the act (if successful) is irreversible, the path from the first thought to the final loop on the knot is one that can be turned away from.

Yes, my mind has been on the subject lately, and not in the best of ways.  I’m not proud to admit that, but it’s not something I want to hide either.  So what’s triggering these thoughts?  Perhaps at seeing the people around me moving forward in their lives, I’ve come to realize how far I’ve fallen, how utterly incompetent I am.  Perhaps I can only see a failure when I look in the mirror, a monster every time I close my eyes.  Maybe I’m tired of waking each morning to the same drab routine, stuck in a heavy haze of an endless daze.  Maybe I can’t seem to feel anything but a deep emptiness that yearns to be filled; one that no amount of alcohol, substances, and other desires of the flesh can satisfy – as they are all empty, temporary illusions of happiness.  It may be that life itself is not worth living, that I don’t belong here, that my existence was a mistake, that I don’t matter.

But I do.

And so do you.

The thoughts come swarming in at our moments of vulnerability, like sharks to the scent of blood.  Caught in the current of the maelstrom, it becomes difficult to break away from the thoughts that continue to pull the mind to ever darker places.  It may be impossible to find the light or a way out from all the chaos, if we keep looking down at the gaping maw of the maelstrom which continues to draw us in.  Look away from that dark place, and there may yet be a glimmer of light, of hope, or even an extended hand ready and willing to pull you out.  Then extend your hand and accept what has been given – hope, help, life.  It’s much easier said than done, as I am still struggling with this.  Before I continue, I’d like to state the obvious – that the causes and thoughts vary widely between person to person, as each individual is unique; and though circumstances may be similar, our headspaces are different.  What may be trivial for some can be life altering for another.  Regardless of the circumstances or the scenarios, one thing remains constant – losing the will to live.

Have I really fallen that far, or am I too busy measuring myself up to other’s standards?  Am I really a failure if I’m the only one who thinks so?  A monster still, if I’ve shown remorse?  Is every day truly as gray as I’ve painted it for myself?  Am I truly consumed with emptiness, when I also have love?  Is my life worth living now that I’ve put things in a different light, having broken my gaze free from the gaping maw of the maelstrom?  Yes it is, but it is usually not so simple.  Even if we can break away our thoughts from that dark place, we are still grounded in reality and all the struggles that come with it.  Thinking in a more positive light won’t make the bills disappear, or add digits to an account balance.  It won’t change the current housing situation, or relationship problems.  It can’t erase the scars of trauma, neglect, or abuse.  It will never change what was, or what is.  But, it is a start to what can be.

Rather than taking action on suicidal ideation, wouldn’t it be better to take action on life?  Sure, life sucks at times and we all know by now that it isn’t easy, but there are good times that can make the bad worth enduring.  Now, I can’t say be happy and enjoy life just like that.  That’s too unrealistic to do so suddenly.  Rather, come to acceptance with what’s been given – life, and come to acceptance with yourself, scars and all.  Only then will it be possible to find contentment and, dare I say, possibly happiness.  In all honesty, I don’t think it’s possible to do it alone.  I know I can’t.  Loneliness can lead to a point of emptiness, and there’s no better fuel for suicidal ideation than emptiness.  On days where I feel just that, it only takes something as simple as a smile from my child to take away that emptiness.

It feels funny to admit this, but I believe love is the only thing that can take away emptiness, or should I say fill the void where the emptiness resides.  I’m not talking about the kind of love that’s synonymous with sex, or the kind that describes the giddy feelings of butterflies when someone’s been met or the feeling of being “in love ” – that’s attraction, stimulated senses similar to that of hormones if not hormones themselves.  That’s not real love.  Real love is giving without asking for something in return, serving another without self-interest.  Real love is something that takes effort, putting all personal desires aside for the sake of the one(s) you love, and willing to endure whatever hardships may come.  It isn’t easy.  It requires sacrifice.  When that kind of love is reciprocated, it becomes mutual and with a partner, becomes what should be the foundation of marriage.  With my daughter, it’s that love which keeps me going day after day.  That love that takes away the emptiness.  That love that makes the hardest parts of life worth enduring.

With that said, I can safely say that she saves me every day.  Some days can be harder than others, and she can test my patience at times like all kids do.  Putting aside my own self-interests was difficult at first and still can be, but I’ve now found a sort-of balance between hers and mine (Some habits/addictions can be hard to kick).  No matter how deep I fall into the maelstrom of suicidal thoughts, or how intentionally reckless I can be with my own well-being testing fate in the process, or how depressed I get with current circumstances, I always manage to pull through because of that love for her.  She makes me realize that I do matter.  However, I’d be lying if I said she’s the only reason to stay alive, or the only one that can get me through this.  The truth is, there are others – family, friends, even a higher power if you believe, that can help.  Even though I continue to struggle with life’s challenges, and when I find myself staring into the darkness, one step away from going over the edge, it’s the support that I’ve allowed myself to have and love which keeps me from going over that edge.

Suicidal ideation will always be there.  A lurking storm of despair that will pull in anyone who dares to let their mind wander too close.  Though there is a way out of that storm, that storm never really disappears.  It’s easy to fall right back into the vicious current of chaotic thoughts, but if it has been escaped from once, it can be escaped from again.  Taking action on life, and finding that light, help, or hope can really make a difference.  The path from the first thought to the final loop in the knot is one that can be turned away from at any time.  It only takes a choice, and effort to act on it, although this is not easy.  With help and support, and most importantly – love, this struggle doesn’t have to be faced alone.  If none of the above are available, fear not.  Seek and you shall find.  I cannot speak for everyone, as the situation varies widely between person to person.  This is my tale to tell, and it is not over yet.  If you’re reading this and struggling with the dark thoughts of suicide, or tying that final loop into place on the knot, your tale is still being written and doesn’t have to end.  Don’t let someone else have to tell it for you.

Not everyone will agree with what I have to say, or my opinions on the matter, but to each his own.  With my brother’s wedding, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness even though I was happy for him.  While he has been with her for almost the entire past 10 years, it has been over 10 years since I’ve been in a relationship.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to commit, or even tie the knot in that aspect.  Perhaps one day I’ll cross paths with someone who will change that.  My birthday also passed recently, and that put me into low mood for the month.  Another year with nothing to show for my effort (or lack thereof).  You can see now where my thoughts mentioned above came from.  Though my thoughts have been on tying the knot, I’ve chosen not to take action on them.  I’ve chosen to endure the hardship and keep trying for a better situation, no matter how many times I fall or fail.  I won’t be tying the hangman’s knot today, and I’ll be making an effort to refrain from doing so tomorrow, and every day after that.  However, I can’t leave you all without a birthday song.  Please excuse my dark humor.

Happy birthday to me

Hang myself from a tree

Let the life drain from my

Body and end this misery.



A sickness within

Mortal confines;

A body abused

Too many times;

An illness that spreads

From one’s own mind,

Nausea induced

To death inclined;

Vomit the soul,


Let the mind die.


Author’s Note:

A hangover is no fun.  On top of this, I’m sick of everything.  An extreme feeling of nausea came over me that made me want to vomit not only my stomach’s contents, but all of my insides out as well.  At that moment, I lost my appetite for everything, including life.  It happens.  We all feel sick for one reason or another, and we all get sick of something.  I’m currently facing a steep decline in work, and that will result in a pretty lousy income for this next month.  I’m sick of this job, and barely getting by.  I’m sick of doubting myself and letting life pass me by.  Overcoming these things aren’t easy, especially with past wounds.  I’ve recently opened up and shared a glimpse into my past that still haunts me today, leaving a tender spot vulnerable in the hopes that I can begin to heal.  Perhaps in time I will, and I can finally start making progress in life.  This dark hole of sickness won’t disappear on its own, but it’s my hole and mine alone.

Is there anything that’s making you feel sick?



Father’s Day, though it’s already passed us for the year, is a day that makes me quite uncomfortable.  Although I am a father myself, and I do appreciate the thoughts, words, and gifts bestowed upon me that day, it’s not myself as a father that makes me feel that way.  I try to do my best for my daughter, and where others see a “great father,” I can only see my own shortcomings.  We all strive to be the best that we can be for our kids, and do our best to nurture, and guide them into becoming adults, but most importantly ensure they are loved unconditionally no matter their stage in life.  It’s only through love that they can grow to their fullest.  However, that is a discussion for another time.  With Father’s Day, I’m reminded of the baggage I carry.  I’m reminded of the things I’ve done.  I’m reminded that I am still unforgiven.

I grew up with both parents who loved me.  Even though my family didn’t have much money, I knew I was loved because they showed it.  Then came the teenage years, where I started acting up like almost any teen.  However, for reasons I still can’t seem to put my finger on, I was angry.  Very angry.  I don’t remember how it all started, or what may have kicked it off, but I had my spats with my dad getting disciplined in the process.  The more I was disciplined, the angrier I got, thus continuing a destructive cycle.

Shattered glass on the floor;

Finger pointed,

There’s the door;

Open mouthed with

A defiant roar.

It only became worse with time, as I became increasingly defiant.  Many might say that it is just a natural part of being a teenager, as we all go through a similar stage in those years.  Sometime during my early high school years, I was diagnosed with depression and put on medication.  At first it seemed to help, but I later discovered that medication was not the answer for me.  I became increasingly violent, to the point where I was taken away one night.  If not for the medication and self-inflicted wounds on my body, I would have been incarcerated rather than hospitalized.  I had hurt both of my parents more than ever, and I know they still carry the scars from that night.  What still haunts me to this day is how close I came to completely destroying my family.

Flashes of red;

Blood and tears flow as I cried in bed.

What did I do?

Taken in the night with dancing lights of red and blue.

I would not see

The thing I had become, as I looked at the monster looking at me.

My parents visited me during my “stay away from home,” and it was clear they were shaken, yet continued to want the best for me.  They still loved me and sought additional help for me.  When I returned home some time later, there was an uneasy peace.  At least in my head it felt that way.  I was also pulled from my school and sent elsewhere for about a year.  Though it seemed things were gradually starting to get better, they would never be the same.  Of course, I still continued to give not only my parents, but my siblings a hard time.  Then one night, I shattered my family again.

The crack of bone.

A Kingless throne.

The deeds that night,

etched in stone.

When my dad came back from the hospital, I could not look him in the eyes.  What I did was unforgivable.  Even then, he still saw me as his son.  He even went as far as to take me along with my brother and some cousins to see a big movie on opening night later that month.  As excited as I was for this movie, shame hovered over me like an endless cloud.  People could see what I had done, and though they didn’t know it was me, I did.  To this day, I cannot forget his face.

My parents couldn’t be more deserving of a better son, but instead they got me.  Someone who ravaged the family numerous times, and put them through extreme emotional and sometimes physical pain.  The connection is clear that because of my actions, they affected my younger siblings as well in a such a way which has left them “traumatized,” as my mom had put it.  Not only did I hurt my parents, but I was a bad role model and set a very poor example of how a big brother should be for my siblings, effectively being someone they feared rather than someone they could look up to.

The thing is, even though I repeatedly put my parents through hell, they are still there for me to this day.  When I look at my daughter, I can see why that is whereas I didn’t before.  That goes for most of us with children, but there has to be a line drawn at some point as to what is beyond unacceptable behavior.  I’ve crossed that line too many times, yet my parents have continued to show me their generosity, kindness, and love throughout the years since the events I’ve mentioned and those I haven’t.  They have forgiven me for what I’ve done, but I have not.

I’ve created a wound within myself that grew every time I hurt them.  A gaping wound which is endlessly bleeding with the stench of my own blood that permeates the air I breathe making me nauseous and sick.  How can I say I love them when I’ve shown nothing but hostility?  How can I allow myself to make even the slightest skin contact knowing what my prior contact resulted in?  How can I ever repay the damage I have done as the scars I’ve left can never be erased?  Happy Mother’s Day.  Happy Father’s Day.  I’m sorry I almost killed you both.  That makes a great card, don’t you think?  Although Mother’s Day has gotten easier for me, Father’s Day is still one I struggle with.  I still see what I did to him, the image burned into my memory for all eternity, reminding me of my shame that burns brighter than the sun.  How clever, I am the son.  But I am not the light.  I am the wound.  I’ve kept myself at a distance for years now as I feel that I am undeserving, and though I do love them, I don’t know how to say or show it.  They may have forgiven me, but I don’t know if I can or ever will forgive myself.

I kept things very brief and left out many details for obvious reasons.  What I shared today is something I have never shared openly before, as it’s been kept buried for the last 15 years.  It’s the tip of the iceberg that weighs me down.  I’m still the black sheep of my family, preferring the cold isolation over the warmth of their embrace.  Perhaps in time I can learn to show affection once again and fully give them an actual embrace for once in my adult life, before it’s too late.


That Old Light

From a time that predates time,

Before stars were yet to be;

When loneliness sailed on

Across the great eternal sea,

There was a light that always was,

Always is, and yet to be;

Everlasting flame of old,

Burning brightly for all to see,

But evil hearts of evil men,

Drove out the light wickedly;

And when darkness covers all,

That old light still falls on me.


Author’s Note:

It took a few extra days to get the words right (as well as the patterns – oh, there’s something about them…), as I had originally intended on posting this piece last week.  For example, in the last line, instead of using the word “shines”, I opted for “falls”.  A bit of insight as to why: To me, a light shining on someone would imply that person is worthy of the light, and the light is deliberately shining on the person wherever they may be, whereas a light falling on someone would be falling through whatever might be obstructing that light, to whomever happens to be there, whether or not that person is deserving of it.  Luck?  Coincidence?  Fate?  That’s for you to interpret.


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