Skip to main content

Message In A Bottle

A girl smiled at me today. Her interest was communicated shyly, but experience showed it was still there. In the past I wouldve immediately launched into auto-pilot, my practiced approach and mannerisms polished through repetitious deployment. But none of that happened, nor has it happened for nearly 2 months. Instead I smiled back casually, my instincts tempered by something solid, steadfast and resolute. I feel secure, anchored to the ground whilst still floating precariously close to the sun. This infatuation blossomed exponentially until its roots penetrated my heart and found a homeport in the harbor of my soul. Seeds of love, unconditional and passionate, permeated my defenses. Our sun's whipping tendrils tickle my exposed skin dangerously, promising damnation if I linger for too long. For a man that lives and thrives, bleeding wildly on the razor's edge, I can imagine no more fitting a death. Smother me with your love, baby. Suffocate me with forbidden feelings, and rescuscitate me with a tender kiss. Im yours.

I feel foolish for allowing that accursed, repugnant whore to dominate my mind for so long. I lay unmoving and inarticulate on the edge of madness, a victim of my own nature, fighting an unrelenting war with my own psyche. I strayed too far from the shore, but you rescued me from drowning. You pulled me back to the world and tethered me to your own heart, warming me, thawing my own shattered, frostbitten spirit. Your innocence was freeing, and over the course of several nights we built our own world, a refuge from the torrential storms raging around us, within us. We stood watch courageously while the other rested, best of friends from the start, shackled by a tenuous bond. I introduced you to my demons, welcomed you into the war zone my head had become. You entered with grace and quiet strength, holding me while I wept, revitalizing the soil, urging new life, new love, to grow in the foreground, just out of sight. When you weakened with fatigue, I cradled you, becoming the man I shouldve been, if only for a night. You strode miraculously across the unsteady waters in the middle of my emotional hurricane and calmed the chaotic winds, setting my mind at ease. You became the caretaker of my sanity, and Im forever in your debt.

I skulked around the city tomight, a vagabond, alone and on guard once again. Every inch of this place is a poor representation of what it was when enriched with your vibrance. Tea is dull, its sweetness ebbing in the absence of your laugh. My favorite restaurants, coffeeshops and bookstores echo faintly and disturbingly with your visage. Our memories have become ghosts, stalking me in every shadow, subtly decaying the splendor of once beautiful places. Like me, they eagerly await your return, dying to be enlivened once again by your exuberance. Music hangs lazily in the air, the very atmosphere around me regressing into a vacuum since youve absconded. Driven mad by unabating grief, I must enull my senses. Poker and whiskey.

Youll read this and groan inwardly at what you deem oversaturation and gawdiness. Youll weep in agony, watching angrily as the tears fall impotently down into the chasm of our seperation. Your heart will leap ecstatically, nearly knocked dead from shock, unable to believe that you could give birth to such feeling in another. Youll sing in rhapsody as you contemplate what we have, before steadying yourself in embarassment, because youre not a "girly girl". Oh, but you are. What you deem horrific I deem glorious. What you consider a fatal flaw I embrace as unique perfection. Ive sailed around the world, been tossed asunder by racuous waves beating the hull of our ship. Yet nothing has shaken me to the core more chronically than the shaking, booming sobs you emote as they racked me with indescribable sorrow. Ive been blanketed by the low tide covering my prone body, kissed by the sea as she laps at my neck. Yet Ive never experienced such angelic comfort as your breath stroking my ears, the rise and fall of your rolling waves rocking me to sleep. In the contours of your delicious body I find natural beauty, a curvaceous, unknown collection of smooth valleys and nubile peaks Im all to eager to explore and return to, again and again into eternity. Join me.

I hate Starbucks. Always have. Its a bastardization of a true art, an abortion of traditional flavor. These abominable concoctions are over-saturated with sugar, afflicting a new generation with chemically enhanced ADHD, turning American women into fattened up livestock. You know I prefer my tea emboldened by the gratuitious addition of lemon and an irregular amount of ice. But this was as good a place to write as any baby. Just give the word and Ill gladly whisk you away from the incarceration of that wretched base. You have the peculiar effect of balancing out my good and bad sides. Light and dark. Black and white. You turn me grey, or rather, draw out and energize what was already there. Oh, and I know how you love those shades. You accept me as I am, judgment a foriegn word to your enlightened lexicon. To be honest, I was smitten when you spent nearly as much as I did on books, especially at a bargain. You understood that each volume held a world to uncover and discover. Just like life. Youll be getting a letter a night, as per our promise. How enticingly classic and romantic. When you read this, know that Im confined with you, and that a life here without you consists of me wandering shamelessly in a drunken, embittered fog. Im ready to fight and gamble at all times. Then again, we're villains, and how good, or rather evil, would we be if we didnt get in trouble every once in awhile? Put your head down, grind, and make it through. Ive got a bear skin rug and a bottle of grape juice on ice, waiting. Dont forget to do your squats.

Good night beautiful.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shameless IG Plug

https://www.instagram.com/p/BjCacWplX6FygVNS5qOdcWnQRGLOPC3DlvI18o0/

We exist in a world where it seems every skill, talent or gift, no matter how esoteric or seemingly inapplicable, can, through the bittersweet, pyrrhic blessing of social media, be monetized, commodified and capitalized upon. I harbor no unrealistic goals, because realism has become hyperreal. I live a simple life, one that appears to have placed me at odds with the world's status quo. Good, fuck them. Take happiness where you can grasp and steal it, whether it's by drinking overpowering, ironically cheap beer with great friends, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs for the shock value, or doing feats of strength on public benches. In my case, everything is words and handstands. The rest is irrelevant. Forever flawed. Forever rebellious.

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me

Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me


Multiple weddings are looming on the horizon of my social life.
Family by blood and salt water are imploring me to attend their betrothals, and I'm eager to follow.
These occasions are always joyous, representative of the birth of fresh beginnings and requited love.
Unfortunately, questions often bloom like weeds, stubborn and resilient, durable and recalcitrant.
Chief among them is the dreaded, "When do you plan on getting married, Gino?".
I always respond with solid sarcasm, assuring the inquirer that they will recieve an invitation to my theoretical wedding before I turn 50.
This is usually enough to dissuade the prying escapades, but the otherwise serene pond of my mind is still left rippling and torrential.
"When will I get married?", I hound myself, wondering aloud and musing self-indulgently.
The honest truth is that I could go my entire life without shacking up.
Though I've been told my ad…