Boiling out of the sky-white flakes they touch your face and vaporize Eyes held in awe of the world which seems designed to inflict red A soul tithing to your own personal demi-urge // disaster an end in itself Pat and sever, kiss and yearn, touch with disgust the coal glowing there It holds heat — throw yourself at it, unquenched hatred coloring the snowbanks
Spit at his feet, tell her she’s a shitty friend Tear the paper Light the photo on fire with a yellow bic lighter from the seven eleven Go out in the street and scream at the stars that have to be there, hidden behind the storm I hate you, I said The interstices of pixels sintering through my retinas like laserlight
I turned to look, but you were gone A final glow of desperation
Things are good Things are tragic Things are desperate Things can’t feel Things are nice I can love them but they don’t love me
Things fall apart Things are beautiful Things are reassembled endlessly Things won’t hurt me Things can be controlled You can buy things You can be kept warm and safe by things Things won’t abandon you
Things are ugly Things don’t look you in the eye In the grocery store And you can’t look back at them Because you are ashamed To see the look in their eyes That tells you that you deserve the shame Or nothing So you never look at anyone
And pad your life with things And push people away Because things can’t be destroyed, only broken Things are your life to the exclusion of hurt Things are where you lie awake at night Things are there when you come home And there your things are You hug your things You cry into their soft fur You can give your warmth to things And they will return that warmth But they are not warm, themselves So if you pour your heart into things You might not get love Decide now, between things and a world
Buy things Fuck myself with things but not feel it Minimize risk with things Defend myself with things Tell things what I need They won’t tell me Drive into the desert in things Show the world who I am with things Automate things Someday soon, things will be able to care for me
I go home and choose things Sort things Wrap myself in a blanket of things Go to sleep with things Things will be fine Things will be normal Sleep
All text and images copyright (c) 2013 by Nicholas Roy. All rights reserved. No duplication or reuse without written consent of the author.
Gilbert Street, Iowa City, Summer
I remember crying easily as a child. When a grandparent or family friend died, I remember crying for a long time. In high school, I remember sobbing in the stairwell because I got a C. I had a long bout with depression between the ages of 8 and 22.
By the time I was 25, I was dangerously overweight, from eating, from the depression. I remember thinking: I’m going to kill the part of me that is sad. I don’t know how I did it, other than to say that through some force of will, I stopped being depressed, and I lost about 140 lbs. I have kept the weight off and have not been depressed for over 10 years now.
Evening summer sky above an Iowa prairie
This afternoon, I came the closest I have since been to falling back into that despair. My wonderful wife is across the ocean doing her research. I have not been able to hug her in over two months, and there is more than a month left before she is back. I’m in a new place, with a new job. The new job is the hardest I have ever had. I’ve easily been able to think my way out of tough spots in jobs before, but this new one challenges me in ways I have never been challenged before. I miss my wife, my parents and my friends.
The sun sets over an Iowa tallgrass prairie
This afternoon, I missed Skyping my wife because of a dumb problem at work that really isn’t a problem. I haven’t Skyped with her in nearly a week. I missed her going to bed by 13 minutes. I know, because I have the Facebook chat record to show it. I was driving home when she messaged saying she was going to bed. I was so angry at myself for missing this chance to see her face. I was so angry and so sad. I felt the welcome point of a dark gray cone of despair1 puncture my sternum from the outside, the point pressing against my heart. I felt the tears well up inside. I let out a muted shriek of disgust and pity.
And then it was gone. I did not cry. I could not cry. I had killed that part of myself in order to save the rest of me.
My Parents’ Garden
1 Dark gray cones of despair are about 8 inches long, with a vertex angle of roughly 10 degrees. They are nicely Gouraud shaded. Yes, I saw the cone. It was a “Donnie Darko” moment.
