They’re all the same to me now – running in one long distant memory of how I thought I wanted things to be – all of it empty now – even as recent as this year – I waited in this old haunted house – high above the ocean – this house painted a grim dusty white – who knows what lives in here or what lived in here – memories of parties and outdoor barbecues – pieces of it falling off down into the ocean every winter evening – the wind blows chips of paint all over the driveway and forms a pile of pale white and orange leaves every fall – and here I sit waiting for the mail to arrive – waiting for letters that were never sent in the first place – waiting for something to break in a good way or a bad way – waiting out storms huddles in a dark corner – there is no furniture anywhere in this house and it almost feels like there never has been – ghosts and spiders lurk in the empty closets ready to haunt my brain if I even attempt to go to sleep – I can’t sleep and never have been able to sleep here – at night a light outside keeps me awake – high on a mountain a tower with lights on it – this mysterious tower that sits there proud in the day – at night it becomes a nightmare – a giant steel gargoyle that forces my eyes open – they come and haunt me though – every last one of them and their tired conversations and gossip – do they all know each other – it would appear so – they have all learned from the same playbook – none of them loyal to one another – when I am far from here I’ll forget about it all – the same and the same - sometimes I catch myself trying to remember who told me something – days spent absorbing teenaged philosophies and twenty-something ideas about how shit is – they have no idea – some nights I just want to say ‘go fuck yourself’ to all of it and – oh well.
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