A Collection of Recent Writings.

This is a collection of writings from the past month. Though I may not post much on this blog, I still, on a daily basis, push myself to write. Below is a collection of some of my writings that serve as a reflection of who I was May 11, 2018 to June 3, 2018. Many of these pieces are unfinished. Many of these pieces are rough around the edges. All, however, are uncut and true. These were written as daily journal entries or writing warmups.

My stomach rumbles. The taste of tobacco hangs ever present on my lips. My heart is heavy and my brain heavier still. Though I know I need food, black coffee is needed more. Hundred of tasks race through my mind yet ever present is a pervading need to begin again with you. Pen meets paper in a construct of a story driven castle. Though it's walls seem built by the trained eye of a master architect, the reality is that of a young man whose sight is muddled with the images of past failure.

Nevertheless, I write.

On dark, stormy nights children must face fear personified in the lack of light. A monster under the bed or in the closet, a ghost at the end of a hall, or flickering lights, shaky cabinets, and creaky old doors; these are the things I miss. To confront these is to confront that which is easy to confront. At the risk of sounding like a tired writer, I will avoid speaking on my own personal fears. I will, however, speak on confronting the internal.

The Middle.
Suspended in air,
Between the ground and what's out there,
I look around in wonder.
I can truly hear silence.
Loneliness is a funny thing.
It's easy to acknowledge,
Yet difficult to conquer.
It's a personal state of mind,
Caused by a lack of others.
To be so young, yet to feel so old
To seem so warm, but to feel so cold.
What is loneliness?
It's a full room and an empty bed,
Not for a lack of romance,
But for a lack of self.
The sheets sit pressed,
The pillow staying rigid,
I lay here detached,
Unable to carry weight.
Suspended in the air,
I look over at the birds,
They're pedestrians passing through.
They can land and feel land below.
I look at the clouds, pedestrians still.
To fall away, to shed weight and to rise to heaven above,
Is a gift that I wish was given to me.
A balloon filled with the helium of my pride suspends me in disbelief,
I come now to a frightening thought:
Did I tie this flotational burden to my wrist?
Was I predisposed to be in the middle?
Or was I pushed here by those that pushed me?
What was my choice?
I can answer these questions,
But would rather not.
Pride is the fuel that will eventually burn me.
It sits at the center of both my being and my burdens.
Rather, at the end of the day, what is the difference?
I used to boil in anger.
I boil now in fear that I'll lose my voice.
I'm screaming so loud hoping people will hear.
I'm hoping without hope that they'll also listen.
Maybe then it won't be so bad to lose this voice.
Maybe my voice serves as my helium pride.
If I lose it, I may fall to land,
Never to think again about rising to the heavens,
At least then I'll have people.

Tobacco tastes like hard work put in, at least that's what I tell myself. My yellowing teeth tell the tales of sleepness nights and pages earned. My tired smile and sunken eyes speak to brick laid on the foundation of my future. Like peanut butter and jelly, like Advil and migraines, and like tissue, lotion, and lonely nights, black coffee and cigarettes are the perfect match. Speaking of matches, why the fuck can't I get one on Tinder? For now, the cute girl at the diner will have to do.
Polaroid pictures painted with people no longer part of my wannabe Parisian lifestyle scatter storage boxes filled with my feudal attempts at preserving my nostalgia.
I laugh at the thought of my own mental health, not because of it's quickly deteriorating state, but because my mental health has never really mattered to me.
Let me switch point of views.
Let's talk about someone else so I don't seem so fucking narcissistic.
Peter powered through the painful woes of parental pressure to do well in school. He made all As. He worked 2 jobs. He graduated on the dean's list. He sprouted gray hairs at 23.
Peter wanted to play piano.
He stopped at 21.
Now he's a doctor.
Peter is a fucking idiot.

Paper pushes back as pencil lead disappears. I peer into a cave, the walls of which are shaped by my own disillusionment. Being alone is nowhere near as fun as it should be.
a subject change for once.
To be committed to the upbringing of others is to be invested in the advancement of humanity itself. Further, the idea that helping others to make yourself look like a good person is shortsighted. To help others is to help humanity as a whole. If we encourage others to pass goodness and teaching down the line, we are helping not just one or some, but many.
and another.
I only eat coned ice cream with my tongue. Someone once told me that if you eat ice cream using EXCLUSIVELY your tongue, your abilities to pleasure a woman orally will increase in sharpness exponentially. It's truly a double edged sword: to practice oral is important; but, if one practices in too great of an amount, one is liable to becoming unruly, gluttonous, and unsightly in weight.
Life truly is a balancing act.

FAKE. =)=
Cheap beer under warm light. The phosphorous color of the beer compliments the tone of the night.
We revel in company both familiar and not, aware that tomorrow brings again the banality of the race we all run. To confront this is to confront that which is unconfrontable. That is why pain supersedes pleasure. We craft chiseled statues out of the harsh realities we live.
Yet all of this is fake.
All of this is fake.
I desire that which all desire. Freedom. Freedom and originality.
Men often pride themselves in being first.
First to discover. First to conquer.
I live in this stereotype. Not happily, but contentedly.
All of this is fake.
All of this is fake.
Painted faces decorate the walls which build the monuments that we so idolize, yet we ourselves are not innocent of pastel masks.
All of this is fake.
All of this is fake.
And I still write.

We are nothing but the ruins of ourselves.
Successes, failures, love lost and gained back again.
The remnants of these make up the structure of our being.
"Ruins," that is an ugly word.
But ruins are beautiful, the natural life that teems from moss grown out of the cracks of crumbling stone walls are indicative of the idea that life moves on.
Though moments may crumble to dust in what seems like an instant,
and though people will pass and leave holes in the heart,
the life that is born,
and the new moments that emerge,
will always show us that life moves on.
We are nothing but the ruins of ourselves,
and that... is beautiful.

Write what hurts. Publish to let it go.

T.C. Barrera