Journal I

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This work is a collection of select poetry, songs, and short stories from the first journal of Drile Carey.

Submitted: April 09, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 09, 2017













Journal I


A Collection of Poetry, Songs, and Short Stories from the First Journal of

















Copyright © 2015-2016 JAWD

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the author is an infringement of the copyright law. 








JAWD was born somewhere North of the Equator in the last 200 years. JAWD, in case you couldn’t guess, is a pseudonym, which JAWD maintains of the highest importance for security and privacy reasons. JAWD has been a writer since they were very young, and it is safe to say that writing is their true passion, and their forever love. JAWD has previously published three pieces: The Gillie Shoes Trilogy, Fate Says, and To Be Young: A Collection of Short Stories. If you would like to get in contact with JAWD, you may email them at 





Boxed in by Children


My fate has been decided by those without hope.

I have been put into a box, by children.

I have broken free, and am in danger of being put, no: stuffed back into that suffocating box.


And those, those who I thought would be able to save me, internally, have shoved me back in, despite my silent cries, pleading to be released.


I have no-one here;

Just those who can see.


I am clouded by energy.

Energy from which I cannot escape. 

It follows me from corner to sullen corner.

Nobody else knows.

It is invisible.

But it is there, nonetheless.


It is nothing to anybody else.

It is looked down upon by many;

A sign of weakness.

But it needs to be done.


I am boxed in by children;

Who, back round every corner;

Seeking my kindness, only to be faced with mystery.

They know nothing; yet they believe that they know everything.

‘You know nothing!’ 

I want to scream in their faces;

Their young, decrepit faces.






I am shrouded by glass: a wall only I can see.

I can see through this glass, with everyone else, too.

I have always seen through this glass atrocity.

It keeps me safe.

And now it doesn’t.

I am broken in the hidden mirrors hiding behind everyone’s eyes.


I am scared, behind this wall.

So incurably scared.

I cannot help it.

It stays with me, forever.


In my head, I am crying, I am dead;

With her, always with her.

‘Her’ is he, now.


Behind my strong, almost indestructible wall, 

I am broken into a million tiny pieces. 

No glue can repair me:

What can is a secret,

So I beg you not tell:


Love, true love,

Pure love,

A love that is unconditional,

Without boundaries, or borders, 

That love can heal the deepest wounds, 

It can break down the strongest steel walls,

It can mend the most broken of hearts.


So I ask you, dear reader:

Can you love?

And if you can, do you?




A Family’s Silence


Families lie within the heart of an energy, an energy that’s been bonded together to become a unit.


The perfect family has existed for millions upon millions of years,

It is not a mother, a father, a boy, and a girl.

It is a group of people with a bonded energy, a sealed energy.


Our voices are silenced.

We are 14 and 12.

I am 9.

He yells in my face, with the voice of a snake,

“I will kill you many times.”

I am silenced.

‘I do not remember.’

You do not remember.

You do not remember.

I do.

I do remember it all.


I will not be silenced by my family for one more moment longer.


My family encloses me in bonds, old and new,

I am trapped within a body that I cannot feel.

I am nothing, no, not to him.

I am supposed to be everything.

He lies:

I love you. I care. I will buy you whatever you want.

There: you fucking liar. 


He is a destroyer.

He is inhuman.

He is unlearned.

He is dead to me.

There are too many people out there;

Destroyed by my family.






I’ve been with him for eternity.

He’s been with me longer.

He’s a warrior at heart;

A fighter for justice;

For love;

For freedom, 

And for truth.


He’s going soon.

He’s going off to Nowhere-Land, and whenever he does so, I am terrified, petrified, paralysed with my fear,

That I’ll never see him again; that I’ll not hear the rumbling vibration of his voice;

I won’t hold his larger hand in my smaller one.

That I’ll not feel his hand over my cheek, over my neck.

That I’ll not not touch his arms, his face, his hair.

That I’ll never

Feel his lips against my own, my hand, my cheek, my forehead, my neck.

That I’ll not be able to love him any longer.


He disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time.

I know where he’s gone:

To where I cannot go.

No, not yet.

I can feel the last words he said to me in my heart, my soul, my spirit.

They echo in my mind like the long chime of a gong.


He whispers to me, in the night:

‘I can’t go again… I won’t… I’ll not leave you, I promise.’

And when I wake up in the morning, his promise is broken, yet again.

But I am not mad:

I am not anxious, nor worried, nor lonely or lost.

I am merely waiting.

Waiting for his final return to me.

Which I know will never come.

So, I am forever waiting.


I feel his heart within my own.

I feel his eyes staring into my own, wherever I go, wherever I look,

No matter how long passes,

He is forever with me.

He is mine,

And I am his.


He pops in, in the middle of the night.

He crawls in, next to me.

His presence wakes me up.

He strokes my hair,

He kisses my cheek, my shoulder.

I open my eyes.

His eyes are wide, his pupils large.

He has just gotten back, and he is okay.

He has two scars, on the sides of his face, his temples.

They are deep.

They make his eyes squint.

He looks at me, as though he was blind, and he is seeing me for the first time in forty years.

His green eyes sparkle.

He says, barely audibly, ‘I love you.’

And I do not need to repeat it back to him.


We are running backwards.

Eerth, owt, eno.

He counts backwards from ten.

I am awake.

He is not here.


He is running, as fast as lightning,

As fast, as fast, as fast

As light itself.

He is running to me.

And I am waiting here for him.

His legs stretch his head to the Heavens.

And now, he is here.

And all of my fears are abolished:

That he is dead, that he is dying, that he is left, that he is leaving.

He is here.


And we gasp,

‘I love you.’

Within the same breath.

He has ran, and I have waited.

I love you.



The Fool


I know that I feel like no-one understands.

This may be purely my physical age spouting rubbish; but I don’t think it is.

As far as I have come this time, nobody does understand.


I have been ridiculed.

I will be.

I still am being.


‘There will always be someone who thinks you beautiful, and there will always be someone who thinks you ugly.’

But he who thinks me ugly does not see me.

He is malicious, a tyrant, a tormentor, a bringer of destruction.


I am tired.

You know, they say that the way someone carries themselves shows a lot about who they really are.

My shoulders slouch, my feet drag, my eyes are half-closed, and I am tired.


I have made someone the Fool, and I can’t be avenged.

I wonder who sees me as The Fool.

I wonder who sees me as I am.


I am no longer letting myself be the Fool.

I will show who I am in everything I do, to all whom I meet, to wherever I go. 

I am no longer The Fool. 





The life cycle.

It is a continuation of a species.

It is a crucial part of science, that does not change unless the species in question evolves or delves into extinction.

It is a crucial part of science. And it does not exist.

The life cycle goes over on, and again, and over into, and over on, and again, and again, and again. 

It is the continuation of a species, of a being, of a singular life.

It does not exist.

Because no living being ever ends.


I am the hour-hand on a grandfather clock.

I go from 12.01 to 11.59 and back again.

I am birthed, I live that life, and then I die.

And then I live.


‘I am at your mercy, Your Highness.’

I would say to Henry the Eighth.

I would say to each Prime Minister of Canada with the utmost of sarcasm and supremacy lilting my voice.


I am a crucial part of science.

And I do not exist.


My behaviour is cyclic.

I have been put into a box.

And I am not that box.

And I am not allowed to escape from the box.

Simply because I have no choice.





Home Again, Home Again, Back in the Rain



I wish for you 

On the homestead

Your sturdy legs,

And beautiful face.

Your bright green eyes and

Matted hair.


You send me signs so I know you’re alive.

Come back, come back, 

Come back home,

Come back home to me.


We hide our fear,

From one another

We squash it into the depths of our hearts,

Come back, come back,

Come back home,

Come back home to me.


Don’t get yourself killed,

Don’t you die on me.

Cause then I wouldn’t stand to see

What really happened to me.


Come back, come back, 

Come back home.

Come back home to me.

Come back, come back, 

Come back home.

So I can stand to see you again,

So I can stand to see.






(Short story)


‘All that noise inside your head.’

I love you, I love you, I love you.


I walked down this path before.

I …

I see you from behind your hiding spot of manliness, and secrets, and duty.

I see you.


I love you.



Only I know you, right now. I’d like to turn back time. And keep it that way.  I don’t have the time machine I found in my dreams.

I only have The Future now, and The Past. Not the present. The present: nonexistent. I live in my memories of you, your face. Your eyes. Your hair, your voice, your hands. You, all of you.




First I knew you as Dinosaur. Then Jamal Habbad. Then Meara. Then Hausis. Then Crone. Then Mitilda. Then you.




They burst into the room. They were not suited in proper garb. They were outfitted improperly, disrespectfully. I whisper to the kids, ‘hide under the bed.’ Because I do not know what is going to happen. But I do have a hunch. They grab you. They haul you off, out the stairs. And I did nothing. I tried to scream, I did. But. I just stood there. My hand holding the metal railing tightly. Tears well up in my eyes. They do not fall. I lay on our bed, and sob.


Now that I’ve found you…



*Turn back the clock*




We are at a bar. Mona has been talking to Ross. She, they, know, now. I see you. You catch my eye. Your mouth falls open, gaping. Your eyes never wander from mine. Mona comes up to me, tries to pull me closer to you. I turn my face away. ‘No!’ I exclaim at her. I’m only trying to keep the tears from streaming down my face, as I walk out of the room, into the pouring rain. Perfect for what has just happened. I can hear Mona telling Ross that she doesn’t know what’s up with me. I can’t tell her. I don’t know what’s up with me either. I walk to the park. I see a sturdy White Oak. I zoom myself into its branches. I hold my breath, waiting for Mona to come after me. I finally hear her. I do not make a sound.




We’ve seen each other around. Whenever I see you, you’re with a different girl. I am reminded of what should have been. What I stopped. Because I can’t miss you this much. It shouldn’t be possible. But I do, somehow. I am sitting at the park. I have vodka in my mouth. I swallow it. I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around. It is you. Again. You are wearing a leather jacket, blackish-gray torn jeans. Spiked combat boots. Your hair is still the same. I bend over. I can feel the bile rising in my throat. I retch, and throw up. I sit back up. You’re sitting beside me. You do not know. I close my eyes, raise my face to the sky. You touch my face. You trace a delicate finger across the outline of my lips. You lean in. I dive into you. We are there. Suspended in time. The present exists for a brief moment. I lean back: ‘You don’t know a thing, do you?’ The tears are welling up again. You look at me, puzzled. You shake your head. ‘Teach me.’ I laugh, wryly. ‘It’s too late for that. I already changed it all. I can’t go back again.’ I get up. There is a clear, green lake in front of the bench. I take off my jacket, shoes. I dive into the water. I shrink myself down to the bottom. I wait. And there you are. Barely a minute after. There you are. You take me in your arms, drag me up to the shore. There is no-one around. I play dead. I feel your hands on my heart. You give me mouth-to-mouth. I realise that I am actually dead. You start to cry. Big, heaving, heart-wrenching sobs. ‘No-o-o!’ You wail. ‘Come back! I won’t go! I won’t! I’ll stay! I’ll never leave you, I promise! Just please come back..’ Your sobs continue again, even louder, and bigger. ‘Just come back, please.’ I am alive again.


I love you.





What ____ Is Like


Fill in the blank:

It’s like having your head swim, in a sea of pure, clear freshwater, and closing your eyes, and floating, down below the surface.

It’s like having the constant fear of a shark attacking you on land.

It’s when you’re just laying together, with no-one else. Just you. And the other, he looks at you, adoringly, like you’re the only one he’s ever seen; like a little boy with his mother.

It’s when he comes in, in the middle of the night, crawls in through your window, and just lays with you, holds your hand. And you can feel him reverberating off every surface in the room. 

It’s like knowing that something’s happening, but not really being aware of it, just having it there, in the back of your mind, feeling it always; it’s always there. 

It’s like trying to remember something incredibly important, that happened twenty years ago, and you’re 22. And you need it, you feel it there, and you can’t actually feel it yet, but then in a nanosecond, BOOM. You know what it is.

It’s when your long lost ____ comes out of the shadows, makes themselves known to you, and you’re back: you’ve more energy than a highly-sugared, highly-caffeinated three year old at the zoo on his birthday. Your smile is like the sun on the Summer Solstice.

It’s like nothing else, ever before.

It’s when you’re the happiest, and you know, feel, experience nothing else; except ____.

It’s like not knowing anything, except what you don’t, and you feel your heart beating, rapidly, inside your chest, every time your phone rings, and you hope against hope against hope that it isn’t about what you think it might be.

And it’s beautiful.









(Short story)


Once upon a time, there was a world without war. No need for soldiers, or swords, or daggers, or guns. I haven’t seen a world like that in a very long time. Although, I promise you, there was. Once. Now there’s only a thing in a different realm. I’ve watched a lot of the big ones happen: The Great War. The German’s Friend. Most of the largest Roman and Greek battles and wars. There’s no such thing as a Perfect World. But you can get pretty damn close. 




It was a Saturday. It was raining. I’d gone out with my friend, Ross MacGillivray. We’d gone to our usual haunt: The Rainbow Umbrella. It’s since changed its name, though. Ross’s girl, Mona, was talking to him, and he pointed out a girl across the room. She was wearing a red and yellow top, and black ankle boots. She looked… Like a Goddess. Long, straight chocolate brown hair, beautiful almond eyes, the colour of hazelnuts. Her body was beautiful, too. Ross had been talking to me, I suppose. He snapped his fingers in front of my face.

‘What?’ -Me

‘We were right then.’ -Ross

I was too distracted by this girl, this woman, to even try to bother with his ‘Soul’ bullshit. He was always going on about some stuff like that. Probably cause Mona was into it. 

The girl walked over to me. I managed to blurt out a coherent response, something like, ‘Uh-huh.’ In that way of mine that happens when I’m not actually able to make sounds. 

She just laughed and kissed me on the cheek.

Within about seven minutes, I was reduced back to the twelve year old boy kissing Margaret Selky in a tree at Caveman-Triangle. 




After three years, we were back as we were:

I was firmly a part of her, and she was firmly a part of me.

Then came time to tell her. 

I didn’t exactly ‘tell her’, per say.

She found out about the War by herself; and knowing me, she drew her own conclusions.

I left in the middle of the night. 

I couldn’t bear to see her cry. 




It didn’t really hit me until it was too late. So, I went into the stairwell and cried until somebody came.





We trained for three days, some, a few of us, five.

We rode on horses for ten days. There was a shelter in the side of a hill.

Elves. They didn’t try to keep us there, surprisingly. They gave us proper food and beds. We slept for one day, straight. Officer Robert made us get our rest. Were we going to need it.

We rode out again. Two days. Finally, we came to the Battle Field. We only had to wait for an hour and a half before battle commenced. My sword was a gift from Aggie. Gold-plated. Stainless steel. Ruby-embedded guard. Real velvet scabbard. One and a half feet long. Beautiful. I unsheathed it.

Near fourteen hours… All that I was thinking of was her. Aggie.

I slammed my way to the other side. 

When it was over, there was nothing there but the dead and the dying. 

I had cuts on my temples. Not that deep.

I was alive.




I’ll wait for you until my eyeballs fall out, and I can’t get out of bed. Until my hair is lacklustre, and I can’t remember how to spell my first name, anymore. Until everybody is gathered at my dementia home, waiting for me to speak my last words.


























Keep Him


I wear my heart on my shirt-sleeve.

It’s obvious to those who know me well: I’m an emotional person.


People have said to me, 

‘Keep him.’

And, I can’t keep him. 

He’s always leaving.


I suppose that I never wear makeup, or do anything with my hair and don’t sleep with clothes on because

I can still hear his voice in my ear.

I can still feel his eyes on my own.

I can feel his calm, steady breath through my hair, on my neck.

And I can’t let go of that.

Because, when he’s gone, I’ll not have anything of his. Just his face. And the smell of his skin.

And the memory of his eyes touching my Soul.


I can’t keep him.



Nowhere’s Waiting



I’ve met you a million years ago,

And now I can’t believe my eyes 

Cause here you are

For all to see.


‘Don’t wait for me.’

How can I not

Wait to see your face again?


Nowhere’s waitin for me,

Cause I’m only waiting for you.

I’ll wait for you till my bones are dry, and my hair is white, and I can’t really live anymore.

Nowhere’s waiting for me, 

Cause I’m only waiting for you.

I’m only waiting for you.


‘You’ll see me in another place.’

You said, cause you couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

I’ll tell you, now,

There is no goodbye, as long as we know 

that we’re here.


Nowhere’s waiting for me,

Cause I’m only waiting for you.

Nowhere’s waiting for me, 

Cause I’m only waiting for you.


Nowhere’s waiting 

Cause I’m only waiting for you.

I’m only waiting

For you.




Once Upon A Time


Once Upon A Time,

There was a girl named M.E.

She was sick, very sick,

But she didn’t want to fight her sick, 

She wanted to play at the movies with her friends.


Her mum told her, ‘No, Mie, you must fight your sick. You will die.’

M.E. Said, ‘No, Mama, I don’t want to fight anymore.’

And her mama felt bad for her daughter,

So she took M.E. Off the scary, tubey machines that were giving her medicine.


And M.E. Went to the park and the movies with her friends,

And they played 

And laughed

And swung

And jumped.


Then her friends all went away, 

And M.E. Was all alone again.

So M.E. Went back home that night and told her Mama and Daddy and her Aunty and her Grandpa that she was going to Paris to be a fashion designer.


And the next afternoon, M.E. Was on a one-way flight to Paris, France to be a fashion designer.


And she got off the plane 

And was greeted by guns.

And a nice-all-around young man in a brown wool coat and wet hair and trainers

Stepped to the men with guns and said she was fine.

M.E. Looked at the ma, as he walked with his arm around her shoulder

Inside the terminal,

To a little two-bedroom flat in the heart of Paris.


And he said to her,

‘Je m’apelle Sebastien.’

And M.E. Shook his outstretched hand and said, 

‘Je m’apelle Mie.’

And Sebastien looked at he and brought her oranges and a deep purple sweet wine.

And they laid on the chaise, and ate oranges and drank Sebastien’s wine.





I didn’t actually think you’d come back .

I felt like you might; I hoped you would, I didn’t actually know if you would. If you could.


You’ve shown me things I wish I could unsee.

But I know you needed me.

So I see these things.

These horrid, horrid, painful things.



You came back!; You came back!

And now you’re here.

And I’m not sure how long you’re actually here for, but

I feel like you’ll be here longer than before.


You lurk outside the room, 

Peering in through the window;

Looking at me, 

Looking, ducking back, looking. Repeat. Repeat. 


You’ve become an artist.

A guy and girl Over There taught you the Craft.

You’re an artist.

A wonderful artist.

You paint the willow trees in The Forest.

You show me the people and the things you saw, and did, and felt, and thought.

And you paint and sketch and draw me.


I never actually expected to be Handfasted to an artist.

But I am.

And the artist isn’t just anyone.

It’s you.

It’s you.



Better Things


When I was 5, I went to school.

When I was 7, I went to school.

When I was 11, I went to school.

When I was 14, I went to school.

During all of these years, I listened to stupid people older than me in body and younger than me in every other way.

They told me, you’ll need this later!

But I won’t.

I won’t need to know what 12 times 22 is.

I won’t need to know that Toronto’s latitude and longitude is 44 degrees North and 77 degrees West.

I won’t need to know 11 divided by 14.

I could be doing better things:

I could be making money with my writing for my family.

I could be studying a new language.

I could be writing a novel.

I could be furthering the world of literature.

I could be reading and furthering my knowledge of the world and people and literature.

I have better things to do than do maths or tests or all of that. 

I have better things to do.



Whirling; Enveloped


First I am still.

I was big, and beautiful and first.

He was there.


Then I was moving and I was moving, all the time.

I started in Fauna.

Then Belgium.









Back and back and back to France.


Then staying.

And he was there.


Then I was everywhere,

And he was there.


I wrap myself in the beauty that is you.

It’s not domesticated; US. It’s wild and forever, and an ever-burning flame.


I twirl and wrap myself in your colours. 

I let you put me in an envelope and take you with me.

Love you.






Why It Doesn’t


I’ve come to realise that I am an extremely nostalgic person.

I bathe in my crystal clear memories of the pub where my wife and child were killed; of the fields where my parents were buried; of the little house in The Forest, and of the brown herby paper; of the feeling of him.


I can’t remember the last time anybody besides him has seen me cry.

When me and my sister talk sometimes she’ll ask me why I don’t cry, or she’ll bring up the fact that she can’t remember the last time she saw me cry.


My teacher for geography said, of a book, that this book is the only one, or, one of the only ones to make her cry.

I’ve read this book five times now.

I don’t think I’ve cried over it since the first time…

And I was just thinking about why that is:

It’s because the feeling of loss, but not complete loss is so familiar to me that it doesn’t affect me anymore.







Most people think that being a kid, being a teenager, Isn’t hard.

And, really, being a kid, a child, prepubescent, isn’t supposed to be.

But, a lot of the time, 

It ends up being hard any way.




Realisations I


I am watching a poem.

It’s a great one.




The poet is yelling his words.

Because he needs to be heard?


I’ll never know.

But I turn away from the poem.

And I realise:

I am scared.

Not of the noise itself.

But of all that the noise carries with it:

Anger. Chaos. Extinction. Losing oneself in the noise. 

That is what the noise brings.

But, I am also scared of what will happen when I speak:

Offence could be taken; misrepresentation of the truth, which happens so often; ignorance.

So, a lot of the time,

I wish I could stop speaking.

I wish I could reach into my throat and yank out my vocal chords.

My mother would say, 'You have too much to say.'

I agree with her on that, but,

Without the noise, the noise that resides in my throat,

I could only write.

I would never have to speak.

I would carry a pen and paper with me at all times.

And the fear would still be there, but,

It'd be muted; because I'd be able to craft my thoughts Just So.

There would be time;

To show myself fully through the ink from my pen.

I am afraid of jumping in;

Of doing what I need to do, and disregarding everything else; That Which Does Not Matter.

One day, I will be free,

And I will be myself.

The Mute; The Loner; The Lone Mute Writer.


Realisations II


I carry on through my neglected days.

I get on.

(With my life?)

No. Not at all:

This is not my life.

This is not my life.

My life resides in the Forest.

My life resides in the White Branch.

My life resides in the Freshwater Ponds of Far and Near-to-Far lands.

My regular days are meditating in the strong arms of an Oak; pondering life and detah and people and love.


"Regular days are spent at work; at school; at home-work."

No! They're not.

They are spent doing what one needs to do; not to survive (popular definition) but to survive.

To survive one's own self.

To survive one's own shortcomings.

To be able to survive the world; without going insaene.






Realisations III


We are all waiting; lying; deceiving; looking; waiting.


We all want something:


G.o O.n A.ccepting L.ife.



GOALs do not sustain life.

GOALs assign rank; status; place.

GOALs defy logic; they reign and promise [in] doom.


Life decides death.

Death promises life.


Paradoxical. (No!)


Life decides death.

Death promises life.




Realisations IV


People make assumptions about everything:




They 'know' that they are the best.

And they accept no substitutes.

You don't know.

You don't think.

They were superficial; they don't care about things.

But some do.


I wonder what they say about me.

I wodner what they'd think if they knew me.


I wonder what they say.

And I do not ask.




Realisations V


'What would you say to me if I was depressed?'


I would say, 'You must, you must, you must let your beauty shine through fully.

'You just let go of your fears; and have the courage to tell them to fuck off.

'You must show me who you  need to be, so I can see me.

'You must rest and dream of what is going to be; and make that your reality.

'You must love.'

These are all things that someone of a high Spirit might say.

These are all things I have heard.

These are all things everyone needs to hear.




Realisations VII


I know it's been a while.


Someone once said,

'If you keep going on this path, you're going to self-destruct.'

That could have been, and probably was, said in reference to me a few years ago.

I do know the dangers. Of it all. But I don't care.

I am a Wise One.

And… Despite all of my lies, my deceits, my secrets,

I still am.

I am at the most creative peak that I've ever been.

I'm doing things that matter to me.

And, even with all of that

Why do I feel, why do I still feel that it's all so fruitless?

I don't know why I'm here this time.

I just want to fulfil my purpose and get out of here.

I know that I'm here for a good fucking reason.

But I can't fucking see it.

And I want to go to the Oracle and yell in her face until she gives me an answer.

But I can't.

And it's so… Stupid.

I know that there must be someone on this Plane who feels the way I do.

But I haven't met them,

And… I'm really starting to doubt I ever will.
















Realisations VIII


People are so interesting.

I wonder  when the next Hitler will…

Oh, wait, nevermind:


I really don't know why they had to choose the name of the Egyptian Goddess of beauty.

But that's people for you:

They make choices.

They're always making choices.

'Should I get on the streetcar or walk?'


\   \

True love Biological father

The choices that we make determine what happens to us.

They do not make us who we are.

Who we are decides what choices we make.

'True love?' or 'Biological father?' It's a dilemma.

Choices are everything and nothing.

Like, I could choose to jump off of a bridge (or something) right this very minute, but it would make no difference to who I am, who I am will be, what I will become.

I could choose to smash my laptop right now, but, again, it would make no difference.

Choices determine what happens to us;

Who we are determines our choices.

So who we are determines our choices. 




Realisations IX


It's a bullshit fucking system that doesn't actually work as it should and it doesn't matter anyway.


As a 'minor', by law, I must obtain a public education.

I am not a minor.

I am more wise and old than many of the people here.

I have a depressional disorder; which is common in people of my age:

We have tired of the worldly ways in which those younger than us sustain themselves:




Idiotic wastes of tiem that could be used to better oneself, to do things that make onself happy.


I'm not asking everyone on this Plane to be exactly liem me, although I'm aware how this could be coming across.


I justw ish that I had someone who most people wouldn't think I'm crazy for knowing.


I rise up out of my cave and I just fall back in when I think that I've succeeded in my way out.


My life is like a labyrinth.

I get far, and far, and then it's a dead-end.


I wish that I wasn't here, although I know that I have to be and I can't do it.

I know that people are against me, but they say they just want to 'help me.'

I don't want this life.

I want it all to leave me.

But I know that that can't be.


And I can't deal with it all.

I just can't.

There's too much to deal with here. And I can't do it.




Realisations X


'Can I trust you?' she said. In the middle of the night, standing on an island of gold.

And he says back to her, 'Of course not.'


He dies, and, sixteen years later,

She’s sitting in a wheelchair,

On the top of a hill,

With one of the wheels burnt out.


And she says to herself, 

'Love is not just fucking, and romance.

'It’s seeing someone, really seeing someone,

'And not being afraid of what you've been beholding all this time.

'Just accepting it.

'And embracing it.

'And feeling it. In your heart.

'And knowing, an hundred% that that's what you want to spend your life knowing:

That feeling. The feeling that your Soul is forever melded to somebody else's.'




Realisations XII


'If I waited… Would you still be here?'

Paradoxical, yes?

??. Yes. Of course. 

The thing is:

People are all waiting .

Waiting in line.

Waiting for a chance.

Waiting for the past.

Waiting for death.

So, the thing isn't 'If I waited.'

The thing is, 'When I'm waiting.'

People bide the wait with mindless games and things that do not matter. 

During the wait, we tend to go places.

We don't stay in the same place.

So, as I bide my wait, will you still be there? Waiting for me?




Realisations XII-II


There's a certain pride in waiting for death to consume oneself:

One who is waiting for Death, they will not fidget as they are the last in line.

They will not complain about their sore feet or sunburn.

They have  an unlimited patience, that never tires, never runs out.

And when their moment finally arrives, they will look up at the Angel of Death, and they will smile, a brilliant grin.

And The Angel will look upon them as an old man looks at a long lost lover.




Realisations XIII


I think that, in every single one of my many, many lives,

There comes a time

During which I cannot do anything.

Every step that I take is debilitating. 

Every second that passes by feels like a year.

I miss the time when everything was perfect.

I lived calmly in my little cabin in the woods, with my true love.

I did my duties of retirement, and it was so perfect.

In every single one of my lives,

There’s been a tipping point.

A point at which I can no longer function as I am expected to.

This is one of them.

I don't understand. I don't understand.

What am I doing here?

What am I doing here?

In a few years' time, Earth will no longer exist. The people of the planet, they will have killed it.

So what am I doing here?




Realisations XV


Right now, it feels like my whole body has gone numb, frozen.

And I'm waiting for it to thaw out.

It's not that my emotions have left me, they're still there. They still reside quietly in my body, waiting for their respective triggers.

My body literally is numb.

When my right index finger touches my right thigh, it feels like it's someone else's hand, and it's someone else's thigh.

Every once in a while, in past years, this has happened.

I don't know why.

But this time, 

I wonder if it's simply a manifestation that I'm not meant to be here.

Has it ever happened to you?







Realisations XVI


Most of the time, I'm invisible.


I wait, within my shadow for the right person to see me.

Not with their ages.

That's not how someone should see another.

They should see them with their Soul.


So far, only about five people have fulfilled this wish.

But not well enough.




Realisations XVII


Once, there was a boy who knew nothing of what really mattered.


And there was a girl who knew everything the boy needed to.


The boy was 16.

The girl, a year younger.

She liked him from the start.

She felt something in him, from him. 

She knew that she had to do something to help. When he needed it.


The boy liked her, too. But he didn't know it at the time.

So they kept on going, and going, and going.

Until they met.

And he knew he liked her. He did.


Will this prophecy be true? Could you be that boy?




Realisations XIX


'You promised.'

'I know I did. But I can't not go. I don't have a choice.'



'No. Let's just enjoy this time we've got left, okay?'


He's leaving in November.

After our Handfasting Anniversary.

After the story.

I found out through a panic attack at the end of the day.

I felt like I couldn't move.

I was temporarily paralysed.


I still feel like that: helpless.

Of course, I know I'm not. 

I mean, look at my lineage, my history. 

If I was helpless, I'd be a sham and a traitor.

I'm not helpless.




Realisations XX


'We've mostly just been trying to enjoy ourselves.'



Sometimes, he'll rent out this old fire station in City, for a month, around there;

He'll take me up there, 

So he can have a live model.

The other day, we were there,

And he was painting me, not me, a canvas, I mean.

And then he somehow got a splatter of paint on me, and it turned into a full-on paint war.


'How long is he going for?'

'You're going for how long?'

'Six months to a year.'

'A year, maybe two.'


Sometimes, we'll be sitting together, 

And I'll look over at him,

And we'll both smile and laugh

A bit, just because we love each other.




Fairy Tale



Once upon a time, 

In a land so far away,

Where nothing really happened,

An asteroid came down,

And they met their fate:

To be forever trapped in a world of eternity.


As the ending credits roll,

At the end of Cinderella,

And that song I wrote for you

All that time ago,

Plays over your name,

All that I can think of

Is where you are

And how I let you slip away.


We were a fairy tale,

Couldn't last for much longer, anyway.

It just wasn't meant to be.

But still I do think of…

What could still be.


Fairy tales,

Never end up wekkm

And that's what we were,

Just a fairy tale.

Never meant to be in the first place.


Fairy tale,

Fairy tale, 

You were my fairy tale.

A safety net,

Under a tightrope,

That I couldn't stop walking, even if I wanted to.


So, goodbye to all that could have been;

To holding hands by the boardwalj,

And laughing at the night.


This is my only, my very last.

Swift goodbye,

To a fairy tale.




Realisations XXI










You wake up.

You dress.

You might take a shower, brush your teeth.

You make breakfast.

Go to work or school, daily inhabitance.

You break for dinner.

Go back in. 

Numb all progressive thoughts.

Go home.

Eat supper.

Bide your time with mindless things.

Go to sleep.



To achieve a proper goal, not the acronym,

One must wake up,

Dispose of the hard hat and safety gloves;

One must open one's eyes.

Empty the rubbish.

Sift through the decomposing and overdue rent bills.

One must trudge through the wasteland,

And get to the other side of the swamp;

To see your Soul waiting for you.





Realisations XXII



I can appreciate and respect what most everyone else has decided poetry is.

I can appreciate it.

I can't accept it.


Poetry, in its truest, purest form,

Is art.

What we all should be going to the museums for is to






Poetry should always be spoken aloud, 

By either the poet, who wrote it;

Or by someone who fully understands its meaning.


Poetry should always be felt, as it is read or heard.

Felt within in the Heart,

The Mind,

The Subconscious,


The Soul.


Poetry can only ever be 

An outpouring of some 

Deep Emotion.

About something wholly worthwhile:







All are worthy subjects, among others.


The one thing that every poem is not complete without is

Passion: emotion:

The one key element that, if absent, makes a poem worth reading.





Realisations XXIII



I forget that I have someone.

I forget about him, despite the ring on my finger.

And I look at other people, 

And then I shake myself out of it,

And scold myself.


He's eighteen, right now.

He'll be nineteen on December 21st.

He's an artist.

An amazing artist.

He always says that I'm his muse.

He's drawn, painted, scuplted me.

He's drawn me with pastels, oil paints, acrylic, watercolour.

He's currently doing a sculpture of me with clay and glass and cement.


How do I forget about him?

How is it possible? ……..

I don't know.



I love you.


























Realisations XXV


He's going away in November;

I know.


But I can't help feeling like I'm about to start crying, at any moment.


I don't want to go out, or eat, or do anything.


He promised that the last time would be the last time.

But it wasn't.

And he keeps trying to promise this time will be the last time, but every time he tries to I make a face and he trails off.


I found out about this time from a paralysing panic attack in art class.

I basically couldn't move for 45 minutes.

So, now,

I can't shake the feeling that something really, really bad is 

Going to happen to him this time.

I mean,

He watched his best freidn get his heart ripped out of his body by hyenas.

He couldn't move because,… then he would have been dessert.



Until he goes,

I don't want him to leave my side.

I don't want to leave his.

And I'll make the most that I can of these possible last few months.


But I really, really hope that this isn't our last time together.


If it is,

Then I'm not entirely sure that I'll be able to keep here.




Realisations XXVIII


Realisations XVII. 19 April.


It's not a prophecy. Certainly not.

Bee is forever mine, and I'm his forever.

So, no. It's not a prophecy.

But it could be true.

It could be that… He actually does like me. I always do get the weirdest people.

Usually, anyway.

The girls are always nice. 'Cept for that one, of course.

He's got a fucking unibrow.

A fucking unibrow.

He said that it was merely a joke; maybe it was.

Maybe it was a secret joke, between him and his friends 

But maybe it wasn't.

And I hate him; totally hate him, for leaving me floundering here.

What am I to do?

I've tried asking him, straight out,

But he doesn't seem to know what exactly he's done.

He's broken a code.

A sacred code:

It goes, 'The truth shall be spat, and dried instantly.'

Suffice to say, if what he's said is the truth, 

Then he can't take it back.

Nobody can.




Realisations XXX


Do you remeber that first Summer? 

When we snuck away at every plausible interval?


Do you remember that very first time?

In that odd little place, that was horror-ful, and wracked with misidentification?


Do you remember how we felt?

Like it was so incredibly perfect, so compatible, so loving?

And look how that turned out, hey?


Do you remember our first kiss?

In the library, under my prompting?

And how you got kicked out not three weeks after that?


Do you remember when we broke up?

Because… I think that we'd decided that it just wasn't working out, right?


Do you remember the first time we met this time?

With Mona in her tiny little blue camisole that matched my red one?

And there was life, light, and vibrancy in her eyes?

And Ross was still alive; only slightly taller than you.

And we were both all shy and everything, but that disspated quickly.


Do you remember that day in March?

And how it took a whole bunch of coaxing and talking to get you to kiss me?

And then it exploded in the crazy way that it would have: all that kissing and I told you that you were really bad at tonguing. Which you were; you were like a damn lizard. But you took it in impressive stride, and you simply said, 'Why don't you show me how?' And I did. And I sent you countless dreams; sex dreams, and kissing dreams, and all sorts of other dreams. And I wonder now if you had any of them. And if you did, what your reaction was. What were your brothers' reactions, too? Well, would they have noticed at all? I've day-dreamed about what I might do next time I saw you. And I wonder if you did, too. 


Do you remember our first time together? I can't. This time, anyway. But it's not as important as the last days, surely, which I fear terribly are fast approaching.


Do you remember when we kissed again after so, so long?

And you were holding the book I'd lent to you as the cover as we started. And then you dropped it with a flash of the pages. And the hand you were holding it with went directly to my waist, and started to touch my arse, even though the trousers I was wearing that day were terribly unflattering. And I reached around and moved your hand up, but that was only because I was nervous and overwhelmed and unaccustomed to someone else touching me like that.


Do you remember the first time you came home? And we all just stopped and stared and then I got up and jumped into your arms and we kissed and the older kids and adults cheered and clapped and everybody else said, 'Ewww!' But we didn't care. And it was beautiful and amazing.


Do you remember that day in the Winter when me and you and your brother all went for a walk and you and I had an entire conversation in the notes app on your iPod. And before there was a new note opened it was on a note that had the lines, or something like them: 'I love her… I'm so in love with her.' And I asked you about it but you said it was nothing, for something else, and you didn't seem guilty, so I don't think it was about someone else, but I asked you what it was for, and you wouldn't tell me. In the Summer, I had thought that I was in love with you. But how old was I…? And I hadn't come into myself at all at that time, so… I was being foolish. But, what if you were actually in love with me? What if you have been all this time? What if you've held on to the memory of that conformist, unaware, unidentified person that I used to be for … However many years it's been? What if you're still in love with me? I hate to say it, but… You're a game to. And I'm sorry, but you're not mine. And I'm not yours.


Do you remember that time that you had rented the Firehouse for your art and then I had posed and you were about to start painting when you started to splatter me with paint? And I grabbed a brush and it eventually escalated to a full-blown paint war? And then we both washed and it was a beautiful thing.


Do you see the differences between our stories? One of them is … Purely sexual. At least on my side; with false feelings and porcelain dolls destroyed. The other is long and meaningful, and forever remembered; with an overflowing pot of passion and romance and luck and true, forever love.


Do you see the difference?




Realisations XXXI


Between friends, it is

Sweet; pure and fragile.


Between relatives, it is

Innocent, and caring.


Between pet and its master, 

It is cared for, and forever.


Between lovers,

It is passionate and interminable 

And cannot be broken.


It destroys lives;

It breaks minds;

And shatters glass.


It can be simply convenient, or it can be with the most inconvenient person at the most inconvenient time; but it happens regardless

Of consequences, of time paused; of words left unsaid and of touches left unfelt. 




Realisations XXXII


You go to sleep dreaming of him. And they're beautiful, sweet, amazing dreams.

Dreams of sitting by a campfire on perfectly mossy logs of fallen trees; roasting marshmallows amid solemn yet peaceful and happy conversations with friends.

Dreams of seeing him come home again after 2 years away, at the Summer Feast, and, at first, sitting at your place at the table, stunned, gaping. Then jumping into his arms and being spun around as you kiss him…

Falling asleep in his arms, with his face nuzzling into your neck, and you think to yourself, 'How could life be any better?' And when you wake up, expecting to feel his arms around you, you answer the question you asked yourself last night, 'If he could stay with me forever.'




Realisations XXIV


Is Eternity possible?

Does Forever exist?


We want our forevers, our Endlessness, our Eternities.




Someone's bound to get one.


Someone will stumble upon an amazing person,

And they might regard each other for a moment,

Before realising


Why they're there:

For love.




Realisations XXXV


1. We are bathed in warmth and blood and food.


2. We take walks in the gardens of exclusion, acceptance, confusion, and laughter.


3. We begin to see.


4. Is when it all begins to come together:


We see ourselves, hopefully, as all that we have been, are, can be, and will and won't be.


With that, we find a counterpart, a temporary gear.

And we replace and replace and replace as the metal rusts, and what's temporary isn't enough anymore.


We find that some, most, if not all of our subspecies have not reached No.4 yet, and are stuck in limbo between four and three.


We fast and deprive of that limbo, but feast on what else survives.




Realisations XXXVI


I love… Just being around him; just knowing that he's lurking about somewhere.


I love how his face looks, with his beautiful cheekbones, and slanted green eyes; the miraculous tone of his skin.


I love going to sleep, wrapped in his arms.


I love how we've changed; how we haven't; how we can continue for so long, and I wish that we could just stay forever in this bliss.


I love waking up with his arms around me, and his face in my neck.


I love going to sleep just as he turns over to face me, when I thought that he was asleep, and I'll turn to face him and he'll say 'I love you' without speaking.


I love when he just shows up randomly for no reason, just to be there with me; and he'll hang around a bit before going to the school or the Firehouse or wherever he happens to be going that day.


I love those rare candid moments of loneness, and love, and laughter.


I love when he does pantings of me; 

With all the different mediums ~ paint, oil, pastels, charcoal, watercolour, graphite, wood, spray paint, stencisl.


I love when he's just there; and I can drown in the feeling of him with me.


I just… love him.




Realisations XXXIX


It started only as a suspicion, a hunch.

It grew smaller, until now, it's this large, protruding, blemish that everyone not only sees, but notices and points out.


What I'd like to say is:

'Why do you do that? Is your life just that mediocre and boring that you have to turn someone else's into your own personal game?'

But of course, I never say that.

I usually just glare, stay silent, and look away.


They have no sense of respect for anyone. Possibly not even for themselves.


Where did 21st century chivalry go?

And wherever you went, why did you leave?

What happened to courting, and… and handwritten love letters?

What happened to 'Frankly, I really like you'?

Whatever happened to taking your beloved on a walk, just a walk, and telling them that you had feelings for them?

Instead of accidentally throwing it up when you didn’t mean to?


Whatever happened to chivalry, and romance, and true love, and speaking from your heart?

What happened to real-life beauty?

What happened to all of those things that used to be inevitable.




Realisations XL


This is to all of you boys, starting out in high school, or grade seven or grade nine; who have ‘crushes’:


You don’t really know yourself yet,

So how can you expect someone else to like what uncertainty is true about you?


[Of course, there are exceptions, but I want to address the vast majority.]


You think you know what it is to be in a relationship with someone when all that you know of love is what you’ve seen in the movies?


You think it’ll be easy? Carefree, and… Sunshine? It can happen, but it’s really fucking rare.


You think that whoever you like will like you back? Want the same things? Think again, man.


You think that who you are doesn’t matter to the other person? If you’re kind, and smart, and have just the smallest touch of chivalry in you, then ~ they’re more likely to like you back.


Here’s somethings you might want to remember:

-Don’t be a pussy

-Know yourself

-Remember the Knights.


Remember those three things, and you’ll be (more or less) fine.




Realisations XLI


I feel that my body has shut down;

And I’m going about in a sort of half-assed autopilot mode.


But my mind is still [mostly] on and operational.


I don’t exactly know how long this state of subdued animation will last for, but hopefully not too much longer.




Realisations XLII


So many people think they know me;

That we’re ‘friends’.


But we’re not.

They think that simply because I frequent the same places as them,

That I’d gladly entertain their idiotic faux inquiries;

Their synchronised manipulations of trustfully given information;

Their planned and plotted insults, that are completely indecent.


They think that just because I’m ignoring them,

It means that I don’t have feelings;

That I can’t see it when they’re talking about me;

That, when they say my name, void of any humane emotion, I’m going to respond with the emotion they believe they’ve conveyed.


Where are the days when people actually got to know you before they said that you’re friends?

When people had respect?

When people were genuine, and straightforward.


Where has the time gone?

Is it even possible to get it back?

Or is all hope lost?




Realisations XLIII


In some retrospective, immature, unpleasant way,

I am jealous of all of the cute, young couples who are able to have their mums meet their partner;

Who are able to have their friends meet their true love;

Who are able to go in places, public places, where people can actually see their other half.


But, in a perfectly absent, noncommittal, good, moral way,

I’m happy with him.




Snail, Slug, Slow



‘Kiss me on the neck,’ she said,

And you know I’ll love you, too.

Wait just here, put the car in park, I’ll be right back, just don’t let it get dark.


I haven’t said a word in years;

But you still don’t notice me.

I’ve been just here, waitin for years,

For you to take me to show and tell,

And I’d sit in the audience,

But I know now that you never will.


Prove me wrong,

You know that it’ll take you far.


Get on an airplane to Hong Kong,

Cause you know that’s where I’ll be.


You know that it’ll take you far (x4)




Realisations LIII


Someone once told me that I’ll only think of certain types of things when I’m feeling bored or something.


But, I have a very good explanation for this apparent misconception:

When I’m not thinking of the thing to do with that particular topic,

It’s because I’m putting up a front;

I know that I don’t want to take about it with the people that I’m around,

So my subconscious registers it,

And there it is.


So, really, it’s on my mind always.





Realisations LV


They say that there are 5 stages of grief:


1. Denial

2. Anger

3. Bargaining

4. Depression

5. Acceptance


I feel as though, even though it hasn’t happened yet,

I’ve already started in on the process of grief.



At one time,

I want properly start this process so that I’m not overcome by fear all the time.



At another time,

I never want to begin.

I just want to wallow and find out that this isn’t properly real.




Realisations LVI


There is still a teeny tiny little spot that exists,

That has only been touched by one.


There still exists a shiny golden spot between my shoulders and in my knees and between my ears.


I have kept it hidden


Deep within a sacred space which has been found - deeply - by one, so far.


It exists to keep the peace;

To keep it found,




It will never be touched ever again, soon.

And all Darkness and all Chaos will sprout.

And be free within me, and in the world.




Realisations LVII


I do love him.

I wasn’t lying.

And he said he loved me, too.


But the thing is:


Him and I,…

We’re Romeo and fucking Juliet.

You go, I go.

If Bee dies,

When he dies,

I’ll be a fucking shell.

No content, or heart, or Spirit.

Just an empty fucking void that wasn’t properly meant to exist.

And the Finish Line is fast approaching.

And I can’t fucking make it.

Not without you.

And I know;

I know that it’s already decided, 

It’ll happen,

And it’s going to happen soon.







Sitting in my lonely ship,

Waiting for your battle cry.

To signal the start of my war.


I’ve tried to make sense of it all,

Through the haze and the smog,

But all I can see is you:

Waiting for me at the

End of the tunnel.

And I’m sooo confused

About why I can’t join you.


The rubbing alcohol and the Witch-hazel

Ripping the edges farther apart.


And your voice still sounds 

Inside of my skull;

And I turn around,

Hoping to see you,

And as always,

You’re not there.


I love you too fairly to see you go.


Don’t leave me here,

Without you.

Cause I won’t make it home.


And it’s still unknown to me,

How to live now,

How to keep on going.


And I’m not sure that I can,

Go on living without you.




Realisations LVII


It’ll happen in July.

This July.


I’m not fucking ready yet.

But, then again, would I ever be ready?

Could anyone ever be ready?


I once read a statistic that said that the majority of people married someone who wasn’t the love of their life.

They settled.


He’s the love of my life;

Ha: all of my lives.


So, if I ever marry again,

Then I will be settling.

I will officially be a statistic.




Realisations LIX


My mind keeps bringing me to the future:


I imagine what it might be like in a few weeks;

If I’ll have the mental, physical, or emotional strength to get out of bed; or eat.

The one thing that I know that I’ll be able to count on in a few weeks’ time is words; books; paper; knowledge, stories, prose, fighting for eternal life.

My pen, a piece of paper, and the word ‘novel’ will probably be my salvation.

I doubt that, after this, I’ll be able to go for very long without reading, or writing, a poem, without reading short stories about it all.

I don’t really think that, after my blood has stopped boiling from tears and shock, that I’ll be able to my way back here. Back to relative sanity, happiness, love.

I doubt that I’ll ever be able to truly, fully, madly love someone ever again. And if I do, then it won’t be anything like this. And… 

I don’t think I want it to be.




Realisations LXI


There will be some kind of ceremony.

Cree, Pagan, Universal;

Probably a beautifully planned combination.

What will I say?

What can I say that won’t make me cry?

Very, very few things.


I’m constantly… Imagining what it’ll be like after:

What I’ll be like; what I’ll do.

I wonder if Kimi will still hold her Winter and Summer  Solstice Banquets, I hope she will.

I wonder what my mum will do, if she’ll be able to understand that, despite the long-range, the pain will be just the same, if not deeper.

I wonder how [59] will react; if he’ll react at all. He’s probably not been in that situation before. I hope, despite it all, that, eventually, I’ll be able to live at least halved the way that I did, before it all.





Realisations LXII


I love you;


And always.

I can’t imagine what I’ll do without you;

But I’ll be figuring it out soon.

So, be fore you go,

I have a few last requests:

You’re one of the only things that keep me afloat, despite our struggles and your frequent disappearing acts.

I’ll only ever truly love you, - for now, then, and forever.

I’ll never forget you, I promise. I swear on my life. And if I ever do, please feel free to drag me up there with you.


-I want a painting of me.

-I want a painting of us.

-I want a painting of you.

-I want to spend at least two full days with you.

-I want to say goodbye.


I love you;


And always.




Realisations LXIII


I’m sitting in the third level of the ROM;

On a little black leather couch;

With Bee running around crazily taking pictures of everything, including me.

Especially me.

I’ve taken some pictures, too, —

To serve as inspiration for the paintings I’ve asked him to do.


There are two and a half days left with him.

Two and a half!!!

And I really don’t want it to be real;

I want this all to be just a really bad fucking dream.

But I don’t think it is.




Realisations LXIV


‘What do you like, Bee?’


‘I like the colour blue.

‘I like when people wear clothes that are all the same colour.

‘I like when people wear absurd jewellery to their counter shifts at MacDonald’s.

‘I like when people act crazy for no reason.

‘I like when people dress all in mustard yellow.

‘I like when people paint their walls gold and silver and bronze.

‘I like when people purposefully don’t make sense and laugh at others’ confusion.

‘I like chicken fingers.

‘I like the smell of your mum’s matzohball soup.

‘I like my mum’s tomato-carrot-string bean-noodle soup.

‘I love you.’




***On pages 280-283, there are drawings: one of a man with long hair, small eyes, and a slight bit of facial hair; then there’s a drawing of a door on one side and a window on the other side.***




Realisations LXV


I’m beginning to give up hope.

I don’t know how to survive after it.


I should suppose that I’ll be able to figure it out…



And one day,


Maybe I’ll be okay.


But maybe I won’t be.


We’ll see.




Realisations LXVI


Today is June 30th.

The Thirtieth of June.


And today is my very last day with him.

Tomorrow, he will be dead.


And I will be alone.

And I’m really fucking scared.




Realisations LXVII


When I wake up tomorrow,

I will no longer be a wife;

I will be a widow.


My husband,

The only Soul I’ve ever been able to love, ever will love, —.—gone. Dead. Just gone.

I’ll only see him for sure after this body has lost blood and pulse and breath.


(We’re Romeo and fucking Juliet.)


Before Bee (again) there was always a piece of me that was missing;

And, even now, before the real war has started,

I can feel the wound reopening,

I can feel the bruise forming,

The blood rushing to the cut.

And I know for a fact that come Canada Day, a large part of me will have left me; at least until my death.






Realisations LXVIII


Do you know what photosynthesis is?


If you don’t, it’s where green-coloured plants ‘breathe’ in the CO2, or carbon dioxide, that we breathe out, and they use it for food and then change it into oxygen.

In short, humans can’t exist without green plants, trees, for example, and trees (green plants) can’t live without us.


So, it’s the same way with him and I:

We can’t exist without each other;

One cannot exist without the other.


And, honestly, I’d rather die than be properly without him.




Realisations LXIX


For some reason,

I think a lot of the future lately.


And whenever I do,

Now, at least,

I envision myself talking about Bee with 

my future children;

Something like this:


Child-‘Mumma? Did you ever love anyone before Daddy?’

Future self-‘…’


Future self-‘I, er… Yes, I… I did.’

Child-‘Did you love him as much as you love Daddy?’

Future self-‘Yes, maybe even more.’

Child-‘Does Daddy know about him?’

Future self-‘No, and I don’t want you to tell him, either, okay?’

Child-‘Okay… But… Mumma… if you loved him so much, then… Why did you marry Daddy?’

Future self-‘It’s… it’s just… it’s complicated………. Okay, it’s time for bed.’


And then, I would tuck my beautiful little child into their bed.

And I’d go into my ow bedroom, and wait until I knew for a fact that my second-best, not-forever husband was asleep before I snuck out of the house with a huge stencil (of Bee’s face) and a super-sized spray can of every colour imaginable.

And I’d run around the city doing my stencilled-Bee-tag wherever I could manage.

And that beautiful little four-year-old child would remember that night until they died;

And they’d write it down a million times in their journals, imagining what he looked like, and what would have happened to me, and their Soul, and their dad if I would have stayed with whoever that mysterious, painfully true guy was,-is,-could be, from a rainy, intimidating night when they were four-years-old and still scared by lightning.




Realisations LXX


Today is the last day that I’ll be able to hear his voice whispering delicately aggressively into my ear.


I wonder if he’ll say goodbye before he goes out to his death sentence.


And, now,

I’m wondering if, now that we know his fate,

If there is a way to avoid it.

But I know that that’s not possible;

Because if it was…

Then we’d both have known about it.




How terribly I wish that there was a way.

It’s going to happen no matter what.




Realisations LXXI

The Last Day


Today’s the very last day I’ll be able to:


Hear your voice;

See your face;

Kiss your lips;

Feel your energy in the room;

Hug your super tall torso;

Lean back my face to look at yours;

See your beautiful, bright green eyes;

Hold your hand secretly.


Today’s the last day that I’ll be able to;

Sing to you;

Feel you;


You’re everything.

You’re my everything.

And this last day is several centuries premature.

I knew it was coming, but it’s come much too fast.


This is the last day,

And I don’t know how it came to be.




Realisations LXXII


I don’t know properly how I know that tonight is my last chance on Earth with Bee,

But I do.


I suppose that one would boil it down to a Wise One’s existence on Earth, in combo with Druidry, and Indigo;

Or maybe just a deep, dark, Soul-gut feeling that if you argued about you’d end up in hospital.


But I know that this is an Earthly ‘Goodbye.’

But it’s only Earthly;

Which means it’s not a ‘Farewell.’

It’s an ‘Until I see you again.’




Until I see you





Realisations LXXIII



You will be DEAD.


And I’m so fucking scared:


(How will I tell my mum?)

  (How will I actually properly react?)

(How will I live?)


I need answers.


I need you, Bronwin.


I can’t say goodbye.


Will you say ‘bye, love you, Aggie’ before you go?


Or will I be left with only these last few days?


I want to beg you, plead with you, not to go,

But I know that it wouldn’t do anyone any good.




Realisations LXXIV


How will I tell my mum that you’re dead,




How will she react?

How will she treat me?

What will she say?


Why do even have to die, anyway?

It’s just going to break so many people’s hearts.

It doesn’t make any sense, at all.


But then again:

The greatest things in life are paradoxes, right?


Love you.




Realisations LXXV


It’s over. 


He’s gone.




Realisations LXXVI


He’s gone;

Bronwin is



I was awake at three-thirty in the morning because he’s gone, he’s dead.

I’m a widow, again. Again!


I woke up properly this morning, and I just felt…


Like I’d lost a limb, and I was having Phantom Limb Syndrome.

A part of me has been ripped out,

And spat on, and chewed up.

I have a gaping hole in my Spirit, now, 

Until I’m back with him.

I want to fall to my knees, and scream at the sky, ‘I defy you, stars!’ as loud as I possibly can.

But I know that won’t make it better.




Realisations LXXVII


I feel…


Like my whole body isn’t…

Just. Isn’t anymore.

I don’t know.


I would, though, really like to curl up in a hole forever, with his plaid jacket and his portrait.


I want to go back in time, to yesterday, and redo it all.

Make it better.

I just want him.

I just need him.


I love him too much to ever be considered normal.

But we weren’t normal.

We were special.

We were perfect.




Realisations LXXVIII


I don’t know what to do.

I feel nothing, and everything, all at once.


I sat in front of the washing machine for a good solid 30, 35 minutes today.

Just watching it.

I barely moved for a half hour.

One the basement floor.

Stalking the washing machine.

Because I didn’t know what else to do.




Realisations LXXIX


I’m lonely, already.


His warmth and light and smile quickly fading.


I don’t know what I’m to do.




Realisations LXXX


I don’t know what this numbness will become in future;

Possibly anger,


Lull of thought,


A big hollow.

I don’t know if it will forever, just fudged at the end;

Or if it will mutate;

Or lessen and disappear completely.


But I just want to stop time, for a moment, or a few.

Just walk around the city;

Go to the Russian bookstores, steal; 

Drive a car;

Go to Mini-Yo-We and what he’s doing; get into his thoughts, the deepest recesses, and see how he truly feels about me.


But, I just want you,





It’s Been Two Weeks


It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks since he died.

Two weeks since I last wrote.


Honestly, I just want the whole world to stop.

I want everything to go away.

I want to stop time.

And roam around the world, completely still, stopped at this second, by my hand.


I want to go back in time.

When everything was perfect.


In two weeks,

It will be his funeral.

And I will give a eulogy.

Right now, I can’t think of what I might say.

I just need Bronwin back.

I need him back.




I Don’t Know Where You Are


I don’t know where you are.

I don’t know what you’re doing.

I sort of want to,

And I sort of don’t.


I want you to come back,

Even just for a moment,

So I know…

So I know what you need me to know.


So I know how to keep on.

Because… it’s…

It’s been getting more difficult every day to keep on;

Knowing that I won’t see you.

That you’re not here.


Come back, Bronwin.

I don’t know how to do this without you.




The Day That He Died


On the day that he died, 1st July, 

I awoke with a start,

At 3 in the morning.

I didn’t have to use the bathroom.

I didn’t have to turn on the fan.

I didn’t have to do anything.

I woke up, that day, at three in the morning,


He was gone.

He’s gone.


On the day that he died,

I didn’t leave my house.

I barely ate.

I barely moved.

I sat in front of the washing machine for a good half hour.

Just looking at it.


I love you.

I always will.




I’m Sitting in the Grass


I’m sitting in the grass of Mt. Pleasant Cemetery.

It’s a very hot and humid day; and the cicadas are off the charts.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve heard cicadas in such a large, beautiful, serene greenspace.


Three teenaged, or around there, boys walked past me as I sat trying to make sense of where the Fates have cruelly, but unabashedly, brought me.

They stared at me, and they’re still in the area of where I sit.

Although in normal circumstances, I might be flattered by the attention, however unsolicited;

These aren’t normal circumstances;

So, not only am I not flattered;

I’m annoyed and apprehensive.


I lost my husband two weeks ago;

And it still hasn’t hit me yet.

So, I truly, fully wish that everyone would just go away and leave me alone to deal with it myself.




***On page 309, there is a drawing of a young woman with long hair and a small nose***




I Wish That I Could


I wish that I could have some sense that I’ll be okay, eventually.

I don’t, though.


I think that one day, a long time from now,

The pain will have lessened,

And the scars will have faded.


That’s about as much as I can hope for, isn’t it?

The most I can hope for is a badly glued together wound, 

With numbing pain pills on my bedside table.

And even that isn’t likely.


I want to believe that it’ll be okay; that I’ll be able to live again.

That I’ll know how to live again.

But I just can’t.

I can’t.




I Don’t Really Think


I don’t really think that I’m living right now.

Not as in, ‘Oh, it was all a dream’,

But like… I’m not alive…

If that makes sense.


It’s like;

I’m not a person anymore.


Nothing makes sense… Without him.

It’s all worthless.


Love is the best, most wonderful, beautiful thing, anywhere, ever.

And I had it.

But, it’s gone, now.

And, I’ve got … A hole… in my heart.

And nothing else matters.




***On pages 313-317, there are two pencil drawing of women and one in purple pen that’s crossed out by an X***




You Know How


You know how, when people have terminal cancer, and they tell their families,

Then their families subconsciously begin their grieving process?

Anticipatory grief?

The whole thing is sort of like that —

But worse, in a way. I can’t explain it.

But it is different. Very different.




In a French Film


In a French film whose name I don’t recall, a crippled man, Philippe, said to Driss, his young, and… not exactly ‘professional’ caretaker, of his late wife,

‘My handicap is not the chair. It’s living without her.’


And that’t the truth, isn’t it?

Of living life as a widow or widower?

You can go for… thirty, forty, fifty years, without them, but…

The wound still hasn’t healed.

The scar still hasn’t faded, so that it’s not noticeable.

The stitches still haven’t come out.

Every time you end up glancing at their picture, deep in your bottom desk drawer;

Every time someone says their names, even if it’s not them; or mentions something related to them,

It takes every minuscule drop of willpower that you possess

Not to start crying;

Or get up and shout at the air, the Universe;

Not to punch the next person to walk in.


And, really,

True love, which only the lovers can know,

It never fades.

It never stops.

The candle never goes out.




Even if you’re separated,

They still have a part of you, wherever they are;

A big part.

And you’ll not actually be functioning properly,

Until you’ve got the last piece of the puzzle.




I’m Not Entirely Sure


I’m not entirely sure how to deal with everything that’s happened:


The car accident;

My mum and sister;

My father;


The kids;

But most of all, and this one surely comes as no surprise, Bronwin.

I mean, he’s gone from this one life of mine.

At least for now,

And… it’s like…

The news has been repeated to me, time after time after time;

But it… hasn’t quite reached my ears yet.




When I Think About Love


When I think about love,

I automatically think of Bronwin.

His face, his hands, his presence, come to mind and implants for awhile.


When I think about love,

I think of … Serenity.

Beauty of the Soul. 

Silence filled with words.

Being so… enamoured with each other, 

So that… going a day without the other, would be like… going for an hour without air.

I think of always knowing one another, even when we’re not speaking.

I think of being completely, entirely, totally at home in each other’s arms.

When you kiss, it’s like being outside for the first snow of the season, 

Then going back inside, and sitting by the fire with a woollen blanket round your shoulders.


When I think about love,

I don’t think about pain, as some people do.

I think of pure, clear, truthful joy that comes out of just laying together; completely silent; just looking at each other, because you can’t get them out of your mind.


When I think about love,

I think of the filth that the concept’s been inundated with, over the last several millennia;

The misconceptions that it’s been spoon-fed for so long.


When I think about love,

I think of all the different ways that it spills over, demands to recognised.

I think of all of the time that I spent being in love.




I Wonder If Someone


I wonder if someone did a cross-section of all of my thoughts from three months ago,

And put it beside a cross-section of all my thoughts from today,

What would be the same, and what would be different?




In Films and Television Shows That


In films and television shows that I watch,

Sometimes a character will move in with another character, because they’re a couple.

They’ll do things like renew their vows, have 22nd anniversary parties, bug the grandkids with old, ‘boring’, but beautiful stories of their life with each other, a long time ago, and look into each other’s eyes with a beautiful love.


And, whenever that happens now, I just think, ‘Now we’ll never get to that.’




I Miss You, Bee


I miss you, Bee.


I miss your beautiful, light-filled green eyes.

I miss having to crane my neck when we’re out  to look at you.

I miss how you were skinny, beautifully, but built at the same time.

I miss how there were those big black freckles all over your body so that, from a distance, it looked like you had tattoos.

I miss how you always knew exactly when to be wild, and rambunctious, and when to be calm and subdued.

I miss how you drew me, and called me your muse.

I miss how, even though you disappeared for days at a time, you were still here, right beside me.

I miss how you never stopped; you never stopped playing, smiling, laughing, loving.

I miss how dearly, how gently you treated me.

I miss your beautiful cheekbones, and how you never played sports, despite your height.

I miss how you kissed me.

I miss your hands.

I miss your hair.

I miss how you never hesitated when I needed you.

I miss how we would do coordinated rollovers in bed.

I miss your presence; the light of you filling up the room.

I miss how you barely talked, but gave lectures in your silence.

I miss how you were in the first couple months.

I miss your pessimistic optimism.

I miss how you always knew what to do, or say, no matter what.

I miss your touch.

I miss having you kiss down my neck, and lower, and lower.

I miss how you were always gentle, but passionate and visibly affectionate in your lovemaking.

I miss how you never stopped loving me, even when you were upset at me, which was rare, if ever.

I miss how you spoke to me.

I miss your voice.

I miss your hair, and your slight moustache.

I miss how you made love to me.

I miss seeing you, feeling you, knowing you everyday.


I miss you.




I Wonder If Grief Really Changes Your Appearance


I wonder if grief really changes your appearance.

I’ve read in books, and seen in the rare film, people talking about how grief will, or at least can, change the way you look.

And I wonder if it’s true.

I wonder if, despite my ‘youthful glow’ and clear skin, if, because of all of this,

Will my hair turn grey when I’m twenty?

Will the skin on my hands become thin, and my veins show through?

Will my under-eye bags intensify into puffy purple crescents?

Will the premature creases on my forehead deepen and become visible?

What will I look like in five years’ time?

Ten? Fifteen? Twenty?

Who will I be? Where will I be?

Who will I be with?

Will I even be here, on Earth, in twenty years?


Who am I?




Everybody Always Wants To Fall In Love


Everybody always wants to fall in love.


There are a million, probably a lot more than that, let’s say billions of theories about love.

‘Oh, it’s similar facial features.’


‘Common interests.’

‘Opposites attract.’

‘It was a needed Phase.’

But none of these is right, on the whole.

There is a different love for every person to ever live.


But, the answer, was, is, and always will be:


If the Souls have been put together, then that’s why love happens.


But, everyone who always wants love, they want love, to be enveloped in it for all eternity,

They want love because…

For the vast majority of people, 


Is the closest thing we have to magic.




Some Interesting Things


Some interesting things happened today.


I stayed in bed until about 1pm, for the first time in probably years.


I barely ate (so far).


I learned some very useful things about grief.


I saw a bunch of very dull-looking teenagers.


I went to a park, to a very big street, of my own accord.


I sang a song, a new song, for my camera, exactly the way I wrote it.


I learned of a few very important rituals.


I thought of what I might say to Christopher the next time I see him.


I went to the mall and bought a fifty-dollar dress for 1st August.

The funeral dress.


I was brought a good sigh in the form of a terribly sweet and wonderfully innocent little girl,

Who waved her Barbie around and made ‘hiya’ noises as she waved it around.


I sat in front of the washing machine for a good 30, 35 minutes.




Mountain Road



I know this slope is steep.

But it’s such a beautiful view from the top.

It won’t hurt you, 

It won’t hurt you,

To be true.


Who did you think would be waiting for you,

At the end of this mountain road?

With goats and snow and the beautiful view?


It hasn’t become quite commonplace yet,

To know who you are.

So that’s all you gotta do.

Know who you are.


You know I’ll be waitin for you

At the end of this mountain road.

All you gotta do yet,

Is climb up the ladder,

And walk across the bridge.

At the end of this mountain road.

With the beautiful view.

All you gotta do, now,

Is get there yourself, 

At the end of this mountain road.


Who knows what the future will bring?

Happiness, and not anymore pain.

All you gotta do now,

Just wait for the day.


It’s a new dawn.

It’s a new da-awn.

At the end of this mountain road.

It’ll be a new dawn.

All you gotta do, now,

Is climb up the ladder,

And walk across the bridge.

To the end of this,

The end of this mountain road.




I Think That


I think that my face has changed.

A very minute, almost indiscernible change.

The change in my face could only be visible to the most perceptive, intimate person.


Another Wise One, perhaps.


I wonder if Christopher will see it.



Why do I wonder that?


I mean…

I know that he wanted me to have someone after he was gone.

But it’s too painful to do that.


I just… I mean, I suppose that I wonder about Christopher because… 

I mean,…

He says he loves me.

He’s said it. He’s said that he loves me.

But. A part of me,

A large part,

And an inexplicably wise part of me,

Says that, despite his age, and his affection, however misguided it may be,

He doesn’t know what love is yet.

He doesn’t know how to love someone,

Not yet, anyway.


But I hope that, someday,

He does know.

And he’s happy.




There’s Something About My Eyes


There’s something about my eyes.


In pictures,

Before all of this,

My eyes were brighter.




They’ve lost the brightness; the twinkle.

They’re sadder;



Shallower; but deep, at the same time.


And, I wonder…

If people on the street…

If they can see that I’m trying not to cry;

That I’m sad; upset; numb;

But, I don’t think they can.

Whether that’s from a lack of observance; a selfish eye; or just plain blindness… 

I don’t know.

But I think,

Or, at least I hope…


If they did see,

That they’d look in my eyes, and smile reassuringly;

Or maybe they’d even say something.

Something like,

‘Are you okay?’

And I’d simply smile and nod, not say anything.

And we’d go our separate ways,

And we’d reflect on the other.




I Often Find


I often find myself thinking about the future:

Will I ever remarry?

Will I ever love again?

Will Christopher and I become an actual something?

Will I ever be okay?

Will my next beau be here or somewhere else?

Will I ever live again?


These are all frequent questions 

That press themselves into my mind;

Sometimes they’ll leave for awhile,

But they always come back.




People Are Always


People are always trying to explain things.






Biggest concepts on the planet.


With love, nobody seems to be able to describe it without metaphors, or/and similes.


With life, people always describe it in very short tersm; We’re born; we do some stuff; and we die.

That’s the most common blurb for:

‘Life: A Novel.’


With death, it’s almost always only theories;

With the occasional hiccup of truth.


But nobody really gets it.

And they probably never will.




I See


I see all of these young people, everywhere, every day. They hold hands, kiss, lean their heads on each others’ shoulders.

And other young people just…about.


And I think about how naïve they all are.

Even a lot of adults.


They think they know love.

They think they’re about the world;

They think they know things.

But they don’t.


I’ll bet that at least ¾ of the population on Planet Earth has never found their Soul Partner.

And they may or they may not.

But they probably won’t.


They think that they know love.

But they don’t.

And yet,

They continue on in blissful ignorance, believing themselves to be in love; completely happy.

But they aren’t.

And they’ll probably never know it.







































































































































Drile  has chosen to omit the short story and epistolary poems on pages 351 to 372.

© Copyright 2018 Drile Carey. All rights reserved.

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