Her writing is still on my wall. Sometimes I wonder if my writing is on anyone else’s.

The password is my cat’s name in all lower case.

The Wall

Preface

There is a quote I remember reading, “Only a coward looks at a blank wall and sees nothing.” I wonder sometimes if I am the wall or if I am the watcher, if I am white or tie-die, if I am a coward or a hero.

People are never blank walls to me. People are many colors. I have one friend who’s brown with a touch of red. Another friend is a deep purple. My girlfriend is pure, omnipresent, bright-as-the-sun, yellow. I try to define people, because maybe by defining people, I can define myself.

One time I thought I was black, but then my mom asked me if I was happy, and I told her, “I don’t know always know- but there is no one else in the world I would rather be.” I cannot be black with an answer like that.

I’ve come to realize that I’m me. I’m Brian. I’m not a follower or a leader. I’m a guy. I live a life. I’m damn proud of it.

I suppose this is going to be my story. Or a story that represents my story. Or a little of both. It’s going to be a story about me but, through me, it will be about the world, for I am part of it. The world cries out for focus so I will give it my eyes.

——–
The junk I deleted:

That is what writing is after all, trying to come up with simple meanings when forced to contemplate a complicated reality.

I truly wonder where I fit in this world.

I wonder where anyone fits in this world.

The best memories are made in silence, when language doesn’t need to be spoken. You hugging my arm tighter, you wiping your tears on my shirt that I wanted to wear for days, you moving closer, leaning away, whispering, breathing – that was a bitter scream to me.

Silent communication is a language that can only be found through living and that can only be expressed between connected soulmates in each other’s presence. The language flows through touches and looks and culminates to form a well of melding empathy that only two can know.

I’ve never expected these moments, even when I should have. They appear, or more truthfully, they are made. People truly are Gods or at least Creators – in their own way. People always want to know, to think, to understand, but instead make up what the world is through language and hope. In trying to find the truth, people are the largest liars of all.

Hugs, kisses, smiles, eyes, these are the language of the soul, where lying is impossible. That is why your holding of my arm, your crying, your breath – that is why, yes, I cried too. I was not sad. I was not happy. I was thankful. At least I got this moment, it is enough for anyone.

To me, that is stopping and smelling the roses: experiencing a moment utterly and completely.

Remember that day on the mountain? That day in Starbucks? That day in the rain? Epiphanies all of them. They are why I write. I wish there was something more, something without you would be nice actually, as you would be the first to want probably, but there isn’t much more besides the wonderful person in my previous letter-story-confession. There has been a lot of important-I’m-sure events happening. But there has been nothing like our friendship, which someone really could make a wonderfully almost-cliched movie out of. Nothing much has surprised me like your funk that brought me out of my funk and that saved me from that later funk which destroyed my ex-lover-life. Isn’t it incomprehensible the way memories swirl together? Aren’t my words just as incomprehensible…?

I know the truth today. But I also know that I knew a different incompatible truth yesterday. I’m not talking in the abstract here, I’m talking about memories. The facts in my memories have not changed, but something has. Perhaps the highlights have changed or the effects have affected my view of the memories. Perhaps the way I find memories in my mind when I’m thinking, the way I map and catalog past events. I used to be such a romantic, always believing in the ultimate good of people.

I still am. I love it. I think that it is what makes me Brian more than anything else at the moment. I think I might still love my will to always build myself up jovially but I’m not sure I’ve built myself up lately. I hope I might be starting to again.

I’m sorry to be the ho-of-others-minds that I am. I doubt you’re reading this, but if you are, I’m not sure whether I’m happy or sad about that. Happy but embarrassed if you tell me I suppose. Otherwise this is just another unsent letter that you and I both write so much of when we should just write…letters.

Here’s the obligatory-but-still-true ending that I will keep in my mind because you know it anyway,

Brian

If I do take creative writing next year I could write a story about ‘ol blinky the cursor and how he comes to find peace in the blinky world among his cursor brethern.

—————————————————————

Perhaps I’ll have something better latter, I just felt the need to write, to make meaning out of nothing.

I would also love to hear any reccomendations for what else I might submit. Personally, I believe that is my best however.

I also edited this. Still a litle choppy but I’ll either submit this next or my narrative about hugs and memories.

I remember that it was raining and we were relishing it.

There we were, showering in what we were supposed to be afraid of. Everything was literally falling to pieces all around us and we were dancing, laughing, and hugging. In the median between heaven and hell I found my proverbial her. She was slightly muddy and a little grey but with eyes you have to look in before you see any sort of truth in anyone elses. We looked at each other for the first time that day I think. And then we talked about it for hours and hours on end – probably seconds outside the median, our median. We talked using the silence and manipulating it with our eyes to say something too beautiful and meaningful for either of us to comprehend.

The world came back as we hugged. It always does. With my arms around her I willed my fingers to somehow transfer my understanding of what this was, of what she was. I said I love you instead and hoped the meaning of those words hadn’t been lost to the world yet. She slowly let go, not fully withdrawing her arms from around me for as long as possible, and started walking toward her car. But then she stopped. She turned around and she said she loved me too. She said it with those eyes though. It was all in her eyes all along in fact. Sometimes you need to listen to the silence to know such things. She was gone all too soon. I hope my eyes said said it all.

I hope I didn’t say goodbye.

Anyone own an old truck?

The amount of schoolwork I’ve been doing is insane but I have learned a few things. First and foremost is that I love stupid simple love songs. Second is that if I ever have a daughter, I want to name her Camilla after a stupid simple love song. That name and that song speak the the truth – whatever it may be.

You’re in my eyes,
in my head,
in my soul,
I feel you there.

Oh Camilla, Light this world again, O-oh.

Thank you stupid simple beauty/truth for keeping me sane.

It should be noted that I haven’t written anything (good) lately, although I did come up with the phrase “Secondhand Twilight” which I declare to be my band name. Incidentily I also wrote a simple little song. If I ever get a chance I’ll finish the lyrics and record it. (Even sing – eventually something good has to come out, right?)

Come to think of it anyone named Camilla would be awesome to date. I can hear myself whispering “Camilla” into the reciever, perhaps with a bit of a Spanish undertone. Camilla is a gorgeous name. Mental note: date someone named Camilla. Decide whether Camilla would be a better girlfriend name or child name.

You know, everything I know about dating I learned from a British Comedy…that might explain a lot.