I love thunderstorms

I love thunderstorms.
They appear and with lightning strike the Earth with such a grace that blends perfectly with a beautiful trance.
Like tears, the rain falls. Is the Earth sad, or just the people on it? And does the lightning erratically strike in a dance; rhythmic with the spiral of chaos?
The storm lessens a smidgen, although I'm sure it's only catching its breath for another wet, thunderous wave. I start to think about the lives of humans. Numerous, like the drops of rain that amazingly form in the clouds like a fetus in the womb, and afterwards race to the ground, then splatter the Earth, leaving a noticeable residual that's similar to the abrupt conclusion to our lives.
A tear sheds from my left eye, but I leave it. I dare not wipe it away, for it should be remembered.
Rolls of clouds shape and reshape in the distance, like the transfer of energy that they blindly are.
I fear God only through the hands of the Earth. It has no face, and therefor no one to compromise with.
No matter, though. I still love thunderstorms.

Did I miss the finish line?

Did I miss the finish line? Can I rest yet?
If so, I haven’t the feet to slow down. I’m sure of it.
And what if I said yes, would the percussions remain the same? What if I was suppose to say no?
Bah, there’s no way of telling. Not yet…

The Chicken or the Egg?

If for one fragile moment it was all perishable.

If there truly was an understanding; a glimpse into what's to be and undeniably 'Okay'. Would it be recognizable from the normality, or would it entangle itself ever so delicately into the circus act as to not discredit its own existence?

Slivers of life and impartial moments clutter my mind, leaving breathless suggestions as my only stranglehold with reality. Trying to think into the past provides the same results as looking into the future, like two separate mirrors that will never produce dissimilar reflections. And I'm sure the mirrors never get cleaned…not even on the holidays. Hell, especially not on the holidays.

Like the letter that led to an emotion, which led to a word that inspired an action, which left others with sentences of unsustainable discretion that exemplifies the same fire and heart that heroic kings are spoken to possess. Aye, that is possibly of what I speak.

I believe the egg most certainly did come before the chicken. I've grown weary of debating grand quandaries and having to settle with notable uncertainties upon the matters. And further, I've grown to crave the complete acceptance of any circumstance/figure, for the taint of skepticism smothers my perseverance.

If someone wants to disagree upon whether the chicken or egg came first, fuck 'em… this ones mine and I'm riding it to grave.

It might not be much, but trust my stakes: after you've taken a shot or 12 of reality reconstruction, certainties are far and very few between.

Is it too late to go back? To dig back out of the rabbit hole? I suppose it would be easier if I remembered when I actually lept in.

There's always something...

Never been a huge fan of eggs.

I like chicken though.

With honey mustard... myes...

.efiL

Life.
Such a simple four letter word that holds more emotionally-driven potential than we tend to acknowledge.
Like a serenade of eloquently placed circumstances, life reforms, restates, reconstructs, replaces, reminds, regenerates and disorientates any approach we may decide to utilize for self expression. Whether something feels right or even feels indifferent, it was never put there for only you to analyze. And to take it further, it was never actually put there, period. Misinterpretation is mankind’s true Achilles tendon, although it’s unfortunate for man that he portrays it and confides in it day in and out.
I find it's the space between my thoughts, desires and actions that I'm most comfortable with. A nullified void that never left or came, for it was there the first time I looked around myself and wondered what the fuck it is we're coinciding within. It's been there every time I've given it the opportunity to peek its head around the corner, like a patient observer that has no rebuttal for their humble fortune of cognition.
I've found the most intriguing of individuals on planet earth are the ones whom scoff at the purchasing of a rabbit's foot. It's not that I've met many... or any persons that have said that, and maybe that's why I'm still wandering the allies and crossroads of Earth with more uncertainty and unavoidable over-analyzation than any skeptic could ever encounter in a wet dream.
I think it's the words that I cradle closest to my heart. Hell, it's certainly not the sentences. They're a gateway drug to paragraphs.
And we all know where that leads.....

The Cycle

The circle starts the same place it ends.
We come to be and end and be.
The understandings rise, end, are risen, then end once more.
Governments rise, fall and then rise in a new form.
Love brins structure, morals and directly after, death (and for the fun of it, life, then death.. and then more death (In the case of Romeo and Juliet)).
Hope brings faith, disappointment, and disassociation twisted with a taste of poisoned redemption.
Children bring happiness, liveliness and remembrance.
Mirrors bring children.
Religion brings smokes, mirrors and a hard case of denial.
Truthfullness makes a place for us all to wish we belonged.
Desire is something we mimic through obedient expectancies (damn... I hope that's a word).
Want is just tricky (mostly because it can shift ever so quickly from one target to another in a blink of an eye).
Wishing is a fool's game.
A fool's game leads one to a "wishing well".
Writing leads to labels.
Letters find the word makers.
Poems find the kind of heart.
Stories will be what they want, regardless of the creator.
The Creator will never be nothing more than his/her own stories.
Life is from beginning to end.
Fighters hate that last line.
What happens with waste makes only what the wasters wished to have in their lives.
Myspace was created by Tom.
Reading makes some happy.
Happiness can do a lot of things; particularly make madness (unhappy and happy-wise).
Answers are just answers.
And 'just' limits what anything can be.
Gloating, sadly, leaves a trail that many travel.
The Bible will always rely on man's existence.
Tripping will leave a scar on your cane.
Your cane tends to come from tripping.
Facades were made to eventually be broke.
Rules were made to be revised (whether it be for good or bad).
Bad is only memories storied in your limbic.
Good is... well, disappointingly harder to remember than bad.
An ending is always dissapointing.
That's why -

Prologue to I.O.U. (one of my upcoming works)

Well, hope ya guys like it.
This is the prologue to one of my upcoming full length novels (at the rate I'm going, my first novel), I.O.U. The book is actually going to consist of 3 different 'segments', each about the lives of the three children and their run in with the infamous 20 dollar bill that their father cherished. The prologue explains why the family is the way they are, and also where the 20 came from... partially.
Sorry if it's a little rough on the editing.... For a writer... I really suck at grammar, lol!
Enjoy!

- - -

"Where the hell is your father?" Janice Baris asked Steve, her voice peaking into a frantic shriek that coupled nicely with her sunken, blood shot eyes. Whether it was booze, pills or a combination of them speaking, it no longer mattered to Steve. He had grown accustomed to his mother's tangents and uncontrollable accusations. There was no longer any point in attempting to reason with the lady, plain and simple.
She stood a good six feet tall, weighing in (on a good day) at about 105 pounds. Her skin drooped from her bones and muscles at spots gravity could have the strongest grip – cheeks, elbows, breasts – and in result she became quite a sickening sight when she shook with fury. She had cheated life by appearing much older than actuality and when she acknowledged it to herself, it led her into a thicker stage of depression, anguish, and denial. She was a manic masquerade of headaches, demands, and above all things, intoxication. Between the un-pleasantries, though, she had a way of giving off an inexplicable ambiance that could produce a smile upon any body's face.
It was this virtue, which rarely shined through her typical discontent with life, that Steve's father, Grant, had fallen in love with. Whether or not he accepted the fact that she had conformed herself into something he no longer recognized, was neither here nor there. He still loved her second to his work. Whom he went home to and slept aside was just a break from his true passion: sales.
Grant's brown hair and eyes were vibrant for the regularity of their color, mostly because of his ability to twist his facial expressions any which way to accomplish one simple goal: to sell himself. He was the best of the best in sales, and the worst of the worst when it came to turning off his charm and attuning his attention to his family. It was this demise that had caused Janice to live the way she did; constantly hurting herself, mentally and physically, for only a second of attention from Grant. He never did catch on to it, and the obstinate nature of Janice disallowed her to tell him. In the end, the same stubbornness Grant had fallen in love with blanketed his eyes from the undergoing truth.
His body had grown inversely to how Janice's had, and not only because he loathed alcohol and addictions of all sorts, but also because of his oblivious disposition towards life. This, of course, made him question whether his career was an addiction or just the way he was. The inquiry, though, was always pushed out of his mind, for it reminded him of a time one of his co-workers had labeled him a workaholic and Grant had punched him in the face, laying him out. In the end, Grant suffered a greater pain.
Am I a workaholic? he had asked himself. Sleep didn't come easy for a week's time - long enough for him to question himself before his own denial smothered away the frightening thought, only allowing it out to breathe for a moment's time thereafter.
When it came to the children, Grant was a wall of iridescent bricks. He was as hollow as his intentions: visible, yet not complete. Between the work and the misunderstanding of what was expected of himself, family-wise, Grant didn't even know how to make his footing. He loved his children dearly. His mind would drift off to a time when he'd hold them up high like a trophy any man would cherish, yet there was always that boundary. Any parent knows the boundary, and also knows it's nearly impossible to put into words. To be a friend and also an authoritative figure is nothing short of a magic trick. To be playing a board game with a child, and then tell them its bed time may appear customary to anyone with knowledge that derives from a point well beyond elementary years. To a child, though, it's like a stab in the back.
"I thought you were on my side!" It's horrific to witness, and even worse to administer. This was what Grant was never able to overcome. Whether it was his charm or just the child inside himself, his influence upon the children would never amount to anything more than an escape; a mere connection that understood they couldn't handle their unfathomably unruly mother.
"He said he was going to the store," Steve replied to his mother. "He also said he wouldn't be gone long." He spoke with a voice that drifted between words, for he was skimming over some math homework. His eyes stayed down on the few papers before him upon his desk, leaving him unaware to the hand that Janice was raising to smack him with. A strong connection was made to the side of his head, his ear absorbing most of the blow. A whimper involuntary escaped Steve's lips as he cowered down and looked up to his mom behind his hands he shielded his face with. Her mouth was taut and wrinkled in disgust, and eyes bulging under her sharpened eyebrows.
"How many times have I told you to look at me when I speak to you?" Her words were neatly articulated in a sadistic whisper.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I was just working on my-" Steve's words were cut short as his mother pushed away his hands with one bony hand, and grabbed his already reddened ear with her other hand. She yanked upwards, although Steve anticipated this and stood up as she did so to ease the pain of the procedure he was very familiar with. She then pushed him away, releasing his ear and stormed off, void of words. Steve only stood there for a moment then sat back down to finish his school work. He briefly rubbed at his ear and checked to make sure it wasn't bleeding as it had done before from her ear torturing fetish.
Steve had brown eyes that appeared black amidst poorly lit surroundings and were always attentive to something, giving him a priming appeal. His light brown hair he kept short, only to fend off the curls that always developed. His mother always said the curls made him look distinguished, but then again, she always told him never to drink and then would chase the advice with a gulp of scotch. Steve held qualities that both his mother and father possessed, although the obsessive compulsive disorder was something his mother had probably created on her own. Other than his hands never clean enough, his inordinate organization of toys, and his fear of most day to day activities, Steve was as normal as they came. So what if he had more fun setting up his G.I. Joes in distinct rows than playing with them, or he couldn't watch the television unless it was thoroughly dusted. He still smiled, cried, and complained about homework like all the other kids at school.
For ten years old, he was very mature, although the O.C.D. was the dominate reason for that. At the end of the day, though, maturity and disorders are very interchangeable at that age.
After a minutes time, Steve was interrupted once more, but by a much friendlier face.
"What are you doin'?" The words were hastily pronounced and loud, causing Steve to cringe in a state of panic as he released a quick cry of surprise.
With widened eyes, Steve began to relax as he realized it was only his sister, Amy. Her freckled face was distorted into a goofy smile that was smeared upon her face. She chuckled in delight because of her success in startling Steve then lightly punched him in the arm. Her face amended itself into a look of concern as her eyes settled upon his red ear.
"Ouchie. Mama sure got you good, didn't she? Well, at least you're not bleeding this time." She let a small smile dissolve back into her expression as she looked down to the papers on the desk. "How's the homework going tonight, math-wiz?"
"Good, I'm almost done. I'd already be done if you people would leave me alone!" Steve let his voice reach a squeal at the end of his complaint, which almost gave it a sarcastic demeanor, although his earnest face said else wise.
"Geez, I was just wondering," Amy responded, letting her sarcasm flaunt itself freely.
From the thin and long face, to the petite stature, Amy looked identical to her mother. Sure, Janice had crow's feet that trailed equally around both eyes and bulging veins that became accentuated under states of anger. In the end, though, there never was a day when someone would ask if they were mother and daughter.
Amy's persona was something her mother never had nor ever would have. What Grant had fallen in love with when he married Janice was just a sliver of what Amy embraced day in and out. Her free spirit and humorous approach to life was appalling to witness; especially when considering the family she hailed from. She was approaching her sweet 16th birthday, and even if nobody told her happy birthday, she would still smile away the day, and sleep soundly. Through and through, she was an exception to the rule when it came to teenagers.
Just like Steve, Amy didn't have many friends and was ignored and shunned by the popular crowd. Overall, though, it was misunderstood jealousy that engrossed the other kids. How she could walk through life valiantly swaying her arms with her chin high confused her peers – and confusion transformed itself into alienation towards Amy.
She had a boyfriend whom she claimed she loved, although wondered if the stories were true about first loves. His name was Drew. He held a manager position at a Toys R' Us which was just down the road from the Baris' residence. He was a 'down to earth' type of guy, although only enough to understand and respect Amy for the gal she was. He was the only reason Amy ever lashed out irrationally - her immaturity sparking like a candle that doesn't quite know how to stay lit. Patience was at the top of the list of things Drew didn't portray, nor even know how to spell for he had dropped out of high school at about the same age Amy was. He, though, was 19 and sported a goatee that was blotchy at spots. He was the epiphany of the word 'pedophile'; preferring to gloat to his friends about his hot, young 'in girlfriend than question his own morals, any day.
Through the years of childhood, Amy and Steve became as close as siblings could be. They were complete opposites in the spectrum of personification, yet the reliance they held to maintain sanity was indissoluble. Their relationship was so apparent, when punishment was thrown at either or both of them, it was done in a way that they were forced to be apart. Janice, whom did most of the family regulations, felt a deep loathing for their strong rapport, feeling the same rejection that Steve and Amy did at school. The way they confided with each other led Janice's mind into a spiral of conspiracies that were delusional on many levels.
Then again, why pop pills and drink booze if you're seeking rational thought? It was a poor man's conundrum in the large scheme of things; and she'd wrapped herself in it like it was an afghan that offered unneeded warmth on a mid summer's day.
The front door slammed shut, grabbing both Steve and Amy's attention.
"Must be dad," Amy muttered under her breath.
Steve then did exactly what was ingrained into his mind: he hollered aloud,"Mom! Dad's home!"
Grant popped his head around the corner from the kitchen and gave Steve a look of disappointment.
"Uh-oh, what did I do this time?" Grant said softly in a childish manner. The comment was alluring in a humorous way, letting the children know they could softly laugh at his charming behavior. They did so, but only until the stumbling footsteps sounded down the hall, which were accompanied by the familiar sound of the wall being aggressively brushed against as Janice wobbled from one wall to the other. Each of her unsteady steps were a challenge for her to conquer as gravity teased her balance, leading her to rebound back and forth in the hallway like a pinball bouncing to and fro in a tunnel of rubber walls.
"Jesus, Grant!" Janice's voice went in and out of pitches in a way that only a young lad in the midst of puberty shames himself for revealing. How much she had drank since even Steve had last seen her was something only a guest would wonder. Then again, maybe it was the pills kicking in. Her conduct was simply expected in this neck of the woods, regardless to how sickening it may be.
Janice popped out from the hall, body whipping this way and that, and eyes rolling rapidly under eyelids that didn't blink in a steady way. Her last step appeared to have been farther than her anticipations had expected, and she leaned back to the hallway wall for support, every limb of her body recoiling in a silly manner as her right forearm slid about upon the corner of the wall. The whole display was not only sad, but so disappointing that nobody in the family was willing to say anything aloud. She didn't care anymore, yet did care if it was brought up, and that was all there was to it.
"Honey, I told you I had to go grocery shopping. I was only gone for –" Grant's voice was as sympathetic as could be, and even twisted with a touch of empathy, although he knew inside, it didn't matter. Overall, giving no explanation was equally as horrible as giving one.
"I don't care! I've been worried sick!" Janice's whole body emphasized the word 'sick' as she threw her left, free hand forward attempting to point at Grant, although all it threw was her balance off, making her do a face-plant upon the floor. Steve and Amy looked back towards Steve's homework, no longer amused by their mother who was a professional at horizontal floor mounts.
"So you got your homework taken care of? Don't need my help?" Amy quietly asked Steve as she briefly scanned over his papers on his desk. In the background, Grant tried to help up Janice, her words of angered disapproval spewing from her in a slurred fashion.
"I don't need your help. You hate me! You all hate me!" Janice sniffled between her accusations in a pathetic way, although the really pathetic part of the fiasco was as she did so, the grandfather clock alongside Steve's desk dinged a chime to alert the house it was 11 a.m. on a Saturday.
"No, I got it all taken care of," Steve responded to Amy. He released a sigh as he thumbed through the papers, then cracked his fingers, letting them fold over each other in a way that was well practiced and a blur to the observer's eye.
"Honey, let me get you to bed so you can lie down. I think-" Grant continued, his words stopping short as Janice pushed him away and turned her head up to him with a face of revulsion.
"You don't care! Let me be!"
The front door opened and closed, this time escorting Amy to announce the entrance.
"Must be Lenny." She said it softly or at least thought she did, yet none the less, it was heard by the disgruntled mother.
"Lenny! Come here! Mama needs you!" Janice spat her words into the carpet her face was strewn in, letting them muffle into indistinguishable gibberish that only Grant completely understood for he was alongside her. She drooled as she spoke and let her flailing arms that flopped about on the ground annunciate the syllables of the nonsense.
Grant stroked her hair as she heavily panted, chest rapidly pumping away oxygen in a dangerous manner. Lenny made his way through the kitchen and entered the scene of the early Saturday's whereabouts. He took a quick look from Amy and Steve to their mother who was being comforted by his father.
"Lenny!" Janice shouted out once more, unaware that he was right in front of her.
"I'm here, mama. What do you need?"
And then there was Lenny. He was eight years old and not just the last child to be born into the family, but the 'prize to be won' when it came to children; or, at least that's how Janice thought it out. Just how Amy was a young depiction of her mother, Lenny was a perfect delineation of his father, including the salesman attitude. Lenny had a 'Mama's boy' approach that sickened not only Grant, but Amy and Steve as well. It ate at the very soul of everybody in the house, not only because it was annoying, but led Janice to blame everyone, except Lenny, for anything possible. Never Lenny. God forbid Lenny had anything to do with it. Even when he was at fault, no questions about it and he had even admitted to it, someone else was always to blame… somewhere down the line of things.
"He only ate my chocolate because you wouldn't let him have yours!" Easter was never a fun time in the Baris household; especially since Lenny had the biggest sweet tooth in the house. Over years of this treatment, Lenny caught on to the fact he could get away with anything and became quite the trouble maker, not just at home, but at school as well. With the board of education relying on the parents to do most of the punishing, Lenny was invincible and knew no boundaries. He did what he wanted, when and how he wanted.
Even the 'Mama's boy' attribute had a selling point to it which made Grant wonder from time to time if this was how other colleagues thought of him as he sold himself to customers, no matter the cost, for the almighty dollar. Everything was a vicious cycle that had no beginning or end. It was like a snake that fed off its own waste. Nothing was being accomplished, yet the bonds made were indestructible.
"Lenny, help me to bed. I needs to lay down." Janice had said it like it was solely her own idea, which was fine with everyone, as long as she did so.
"You got this taken care of?" Grant asked Lenny as he stopped comforting Janice and stood up. As usual, Grant took a step aside, letting one of the children handle a world he'd never familiarize himself with. Whether his time was cut short or not, it wasn't in his cards.
"Yeah, no problem," he said to his father softly, and then knelled down alongside his mom. "Okay, mama, here we go!"
"Could you guys give me a hand bringing in the groceries?" Grant asked it as if he was expecting them to say 'No', although didn't stop, but kept walking into the kitchen towards the front door. Amy followed his lead immediately.
"Sure, daddy," she said as she left Steve's side. After a few moments of cleaning everything up at his desk, Steve followed as well, quickly glancing at Lenny who was in the hall struggling to counterbalance their mother's inability to decide which way she wanted to lean.
Steve shook his head, then turned away and headed outside to help his father and sister.

* * *

"Everyone's against me, Lenny. They's never gonna understand me the way you do." Tears had pooled along Janice's lower eyelids and were now overflowing and trailing down her cheeks.
Lenny didn't actually have anything to say, but knew one thing from years of comforting her: silence can say everything. He held her hand that had finally steadied away shakes that she randomly would become engulfed with.
"Thank god for you." Her voice fell silent, her eyes closed away the world, and she went unconscious. After pulling a sheet over her, Lenny turned away from his slumbering mother to assist with groceries when he noticed something he'd seen many a time before, but never with the same mischievous eyes as he had now.
Framed and hanging on the wall in his parent's bedroom was the infamous 20 dollar bill. The first 20 dollars Grant had ever made in sales, and as he had labeled it: my lucky 20.
"Before it, I just didn't have it. Something about that 20…." It was what he had always said; believing everything he'd accomplished was simply because of that bill.
Other than Grant's sentimental value for it, the 20 dollar bill had no real appeal. It was flattened out behind the framed glass, although still showed evident wrinkles and tears here and there. Upon it were three letters written sloppily: I.O.U.
Nobody knew why it was there, except Grant. And he wouldn't tell a soul. Not unless he had to, and that day had yet to come.
Lenny gave a quick glance back to his snoring mother then stepped up to the framed currency. Without hesitation, he unhooked it from the nail in the wall and made off to his room. After stashing it between his mattress and bedstead, he went down to the kitchen to help put away the groceries.

* * *

"Where the hell is it?!? You know how much that 20 means to me." Grant's face was overwhelmed with anger. His plush red cheeks were pronounced by his gnarled lips that were parted just enough to show his teeth in a vicious way. It was eight p.m. that same Saturday, and peace and quiet was far from accomplishment that night.
"I don't know! I really don't. I didn't see it gone this morning, I swear!" Janice was shaking all over, holding her ground to what she knew to be true. The problem, though, was that she really didn't know… and not just because she didn't take it, but because every day of her life was now a blur of in particular events.
"You do! You took it for your damn pills. I give you enough money… but it's never enough. Nothing is ever enough!" Grant paced back and forth in a line that couldn't have been longer than six feet. He looked back to the vacant nail on the wall, which only fed his anger more. "Damn it, woman. Where is it?" Through his eyes of fury, Grant suddenly realized he wasn't getting a response. "Answer m-" And then Grant's ferocity vanished as he looked back to the bed Janice was sitting on.
She was now lying on her side and shaking erratically. Foaming at the mouth and in a place that didn't concern itself with lucky charms nor addictions, Janice was having a seizure.
"Oh god, no!" Grant leaped over to her and yelled as loud as he could, "Someone call 911 now!"
Whether the medics had been pacing right alongside Grant in his fit of rage or had taken 4 hours to get there, it didn't matter. Everyone's given one body, and what they do with it is their own discretion. Sometimes, the problem's that we don't know our own limits. In Janice's case, she had been pushing her limits months before.