Author: andyveilleux

The difference a Christmas makes

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I have felt some of the lowest emotions of my short life in the past two weeks. This will not come as a surprise to my friends or family. Without going into details, few things worse than what have happened over the last two weeks could happen to bomb a person's life.

This is not woe-is-me. In fact, I want to speak wih hope and optimism for the future. Just over a week ago, I lost my mover and yesterday, I lost that friend. Not lost in a sense of detah, but maybe permanently lost all the same. What difference a Christmas makes.

Last Christmas I almost bought a ring, and this Christmas is driven towards a strong hatred. The hatred I have dropped, it has not been easy. I awoke this morning shaking with rage, I sat down and watched both hands shaking uncontrollably. There was only one way life could go from here, and there are less than a handful of moment spent here on the bedrock.

Ths hatred has gone, a steely resolve to move forward has taken over. The love remains, despite the events that have led to this circus. To be clear, the fult does not rest with any one individual. A multitude of failues and mistakes needed to take place for everything to come together as it did. Mistakes on my part, mistakes on her part, and that;s the nature of the beast.

We walk into commitment with our own failings as people, and we hope that we can somehow weather the storm. Sometimes the storm is too much, or it tears the roof off our houses. Sometimes the roof can be repaired, but occasionally it just gets patched up until it breaks again. It never ends.

In the end, there is only love. You can hate, and you can be betrayed. You can suffer and wallow in it. These things never overcome love, no matter how brutal they are. 

the scissors of time

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The scissors of time have tried to take their toll on you, but you're resilient. That was one thing that should never be forgotten, you never gave up on your life. The slash marks were stories, and the scars brought thoughts of you being your father's daughter.

It was never easy for us after we 'earned' a title. You acting your age and me acting twenty years too old. We knew life, for us, was a matter of time. We had our window. It will never permanently close, but it might never open again.

We were wrong to each other, but not in some deep, methodical way. In the stupid, easy way, where the audience screams out for us to act better, but we wink at them. There was never any audience, and we were less clever than we thought.

The end of the track should have hit before we made a home, but the minecart found different rails laced with the same problems. "Us" is a story in two acts, neither with a happy ending, although the first part is closest – because we leave happy. But, as always with us, tragedy struck early in the next act. 

We rarely had heaven on earth, or hell for that matter. We were somewhere of our own devising, not purgatory. We caught the glow of heaven and the wrath of hell, sometimes back-to-back. Love and hatred alternating, hitting us like left and right hooks, until we were so punch drunk from one another we could barely stand. Too swollen to kiss. Somehow, we could always remember.

We thought like pathetic idiots. Blame was thrown around like sugar on ice – someone had replaced the salt. The problems never went anywhere, and we lived historical to the bitter end. We have fallen into familiar issues. The homebody left brooding and contemplating love, the adventurer out meeting the new. Neither leads to happiness, because the wrong questions are asked.

The scars are a mirror into your heart. They are you in the truest sense, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous you can look in a dress. You're not meant for those nights, but you forget everytime, and there's something here about glory days. There's an old soul, small town girl, being hidden by the glamour somehow. The drinks are hard, company weak and the meaning empty, but it shoots one more night in the head.

What glory days are left for the thinker out of time, out of love? What sweet thoughts could dance long enough to pass the days? How many clean, well-lighted places could ease this old mind? The answer is the same.

There is no such thing as a guilt or remorse, in any meaningful way. Guilt and remorse mean little when the past is fixed and decisions have been made. Choice is a funny thing like that. The freedom to choose, but choices and actions become unfree once taken. The past makes us all unfree, and it sunk us like the hand of poseidon around our necks.

I love you, I'm sorry. Life is hard and my letters dance around the unsaid.

aging delivers

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History broke years ago

for me

and every time I think

it is fixed

it suddenly stops working again

A coal-powered concept in a 

nuclear world.

 

How many bodies need

to bounce

off the mattress to find love?

Usually a handful,

but some of us never find love.

 

I don't think most of us are looking,

our inner child are still searching

because

they want the comfort

but the rational animal knows

something.

 

Pain and pleasure principles

so skewed nobody even uses them

to figure love out

and it's a good thing for the romantics

because we would have

given up the game

years ago.

 

Aging delivers on scars

and death

and love remains elusive.

A life of sand

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A person can become your life to

the point that they are

all you ever knew.

 

The ability to walk slides out from under you

a rug over marbles over ice,

and you find yourself as a fawn dangerously

trying to find your footing in a

frozen world.

 

the left foot plants and

the right foot inches forward with caution

landing near its mark.

 

One will keep crawling in and

out

of beds to learn

what the other already knows.

 

Someone always hurts 

and the world if filled with

idiots

who don't understand much

especially about

love.

 

The something special leaves you

unceremoniously

it sneaks out the front door while you sleep

the same way it snuck in,

and it doesn't leave a note

or forwarding address,

and

even if it would have,

it's dead.

 

We are all grasping at the

sands of time

– some watch themselves get old

others try and keep love alive,

but it's all

just

sand.

Walking on it

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Walking on sharp stainless leaking
blood
And walking still
Always walking.

The beauty is grotesque when the hell
Of progress
grinds down the gorgeous until
Simple expressions tell a story
longer than one human life.

Born to die in a non-literal sense
Self-destructive and courageous
And chaotic

hulking cyborgs of thought

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Once the chains come off, the results are unpredictable. The hulking brute is loosed on the world and given freedom with no eye to caution and with no checks and balances.

The moment the last of the iron cuffs slammed and bounced on the floor, with the distinct noise of metal on concrete that is unforgettably real, is a moment that will change the world. The sheer power of the imagination and the word roars, shaking infants awake.

Every poet turns 50 degress east, bows their head and stares in an attempt to break through the veil and hide in the abyss of their sorrow. Philosophers sit in their smugness and self-importance,  a curled grin on the right side of theie mouths, believing the power to be nothing new or unique. They are wrong. They are deceived. The poets can not slip away and the philosophers will learn the hardest lessons.

There is nothing as permanent or satisfying as the proper line of words. Each statement is a shadow of a thoughts and always loses the proper meaning. Each statement becomes a bastard in the head of others, some of whom instantly accept it and others who instantly reject it. For some, the thought poisons them. A slow, creeping poison that punches a fist of rusted steel into your chest but will not rip out your heart. It misses the vitals and leaves you to rot, system going septic, and the fist stays.

A new form of cyborg is born.

living in the inbetween

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Life is not made up of big moments, surrounded by the everyday. Life is the everyday and the big moments float as debris on a still lake.

They bring character, a sense of optimism for something more than just a still, lonely lake, and most of all, a possibility of something new. Nobody knows from whence the river flows, but that it flows makes a world of difference. Staring at the same water gets old, and bathing in the same water is death.

There's nothing written about the water being bluer on the other side, and it would be a lie if there were. All water, earth, love, and hatred are the same, and only a matter of varying degrees. Sadness is the same. Everything is the same.

I walk on days-old snow, destroying the calmness of frozen surfaces. There never has been more or less than in this moment. Everything is the same. Life is a series of the in-between moments, occasionally punctuated by the novel.

Love is the coldest lake, and the less still. The boredom of love is an abyss that drains the life from the healthy to the point they wither and die instantaneously. Maybe there is no ressurection afterwards, although we all limp forward and try. Once corrupted, maybe love is never to be saved.

A splash of caffeine rakes its hot fingers through the gooey areas of my brain. Something stirs. Madness sits, a raven, keeping the eggs that are my ideas warm until the hatch into still-born lines about things nobody knows. There is only one loss in life worthy of the name, that of progress and love. The endless march of progress losses everything to gain nothing, and it eats at love like a flame eats at gasoline. The funeral was held at the lake.

Stillness pervaded, nothing stirred.

Belief, nothing and madness

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Belief is a distinctly human trait, and built on human rationality. Somewhere between Donald Davidson and Jane Goodale, life happens.

Stinky, barbaric, chaotic life. The kind that numbs the brain like sitting hunched over staring at your black keyboard with no words that can capture the moment of nothing. The kind of nothing that could not go by any other name and could never be understood by anybody who never spent time torn down by strong anti-depressants, or at least sunken into the abyss of a serious depression.

Numb nothingness.

The kind of numbness crafted from a lack of love, or love torn off your back like an old, bloody and pale band-aid only to reveal an infected wound that blasts pain to the limits of your being. Cures are for quitters and only the truth-seekers – and admittedly those with a hint of masochisism – can absorb the experience of a world crashing down around their waxy ears.

We build the foundations of our lives on nothing. Beliefs are pulled together as patchwork abominations, scary and aggressive, but even more transitory than new years resolutions and sports rosters. Beliefs are often built on prejudice, half-baked ideas and tunnel-vision perspectives, yet taken as transcedental truth.

We live there, We all live there. No wonder people are not good to each other.

A person is a collection of actions, statements and rumours. If there’s an intelligent design, humans were thrown together as an example of what happens when the boundaries of dysfunction and chaos anally rape order and justice.

We can ive nowhere else, and we can never walk away from ourselves. No bullet could remove us, and no chemical lobotomy or hallucigenic drug could propel us out of being stuck here. We are right here, staring at an off-white wall where nothing but screams, crying and the howls of madness reach our ears.

Shut up and listen. You can hear it too. Madness, distant but coming on like a train. It claims every brilliant mind it did not birth.

lonely hatred

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Hatred is a gun loaded

with loneliness

and sometimes ignorance.

 

Sometimes knowledge is

ammunition.

 

There's a fine line between letting

the 

good

times

roll

and the screeching halt of apathy and selfishness.

 

Actions are always stronger than

words spoken

and especially

ideas thought and intended.

The politics of early morning

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Six a.m. didn't matter

and I did'nt care much for seven.

 

Five was the time to be alive and slide down the

oily snakeskin back of indecision that

will buck you off like

an ancient dragon waking up with

the force of

15,000 years of fucking righteous anger

and lovers all murdered by time

and indifference.

 

There's only one snake in your ear and

it's a tired tale

for tired eyes

but its ancient and iron-clad

because the message never changes in

a relationship or out of it when

one wonders where the hours go that have split

the oddest of couples

like dried-out pine slabs under

the weight of a hydraulic wood-splitter.

 

Something always snaps 

and someone

always

hurts.