I just felt like I should blog something because it's been awhile.  And I'm sad.  Most good blog entries, as you know, come from feeling sad and lonely and introspective.  But unfortunately, I'm also exhausted and have a HUGE headache and have spent a good deal of the last few minutes sobbing inanely which is quite emotionally draining.  It is almost like you can feel this huge wave of depression sweeping across and you just brace yourself for the aftermath and pick up the pieces of whatever is left of you.

I'm missing several good pairs of organs and teeth.  And a lung.  A left brain lobe.  Several other stuff.

Need crack pipe.

Once upon a time, on a very dark, very lonely night, the people in my head began speaking to me...

They had probably been speaking to me for years, but only in the heavy stillness between midnight and forever could I hear them. Their voices weren't very loud; such is the nature of ghosts.

That's how I tend to think of them: ghosts, dead voices from other worlds, possibilities that could have been, but were stillborn in the wash of time and destiny. Fate snapped their cords, and instead of existence in the living, breathing world they found themselves relegated to the darker regions of my brain.

I tried to ignore them at first, fearful it would drive me mad. But eventually a night came that lasted forever, and try as I might I could not shut the voices out. So I listened, trying to make sense of the chaos of lives being lived within me. Some were frightening: monsters hidden beneath human faces, madmen who built shrines from the bones of murdered birds, or bathed in the blood of infants to give them eternal youth. Others were mundane, people living lives of such numbing ordinariness it hurt to listen to them. Some I hated, others I loved with agonizing fervor.

All of them were slowly driving me mad.

Slowly the voices grew louder as more ghosts joined the mob. I began to think they would soon crack my skull in two, spill out like a horde of Athenas from the head of Zeus. I found that I could hear them during the daylight, began to wonder if others could hear them too: an insistent hiss, like a far off tide washing across some strange, gray shore.

My ex relished my insanity. Loved its chaos, its power.

My life began to blur into the stories spun by my ghosts. Who was I? The old man fleeing the demon with the iron smile? The golden-eyed girl who lived among killers? Or the young man who sacrificed his sanity to spend his nights listening to other people's dreams?

So I began writing their tales down, filling page after page with their lives. And as each story unfolded, as each ghost was given voice by my hand, they disappeared from my head. Years went by, pages and pages were filled with them. From the most prosaic to the most fantastic, I recorded what they had to tell. Pale children with hearts of glass who sang to the sea, a woman who captured an angel with a net woven from nightmares, a lonely hunter haunted by the howls of murdered wolves, all of them set free. And eventually...silence.

The last of the ghosts flew from my mind, and their parting came so suddenly that for many nights I continued to write. But without them it meant nothing; I wrote lines of nonsense until the emptiness in my head finally hit me. I was alone. My ex did not understand. Never understood. She took the writings of the ghosts and destroyed them -- threw them out, along with all the rest of the garbage that was me.

So I waited, hoping that perhaps a last straggling ghost would appear. But the silence endured. Sleepless nights drifted by as I waited, pen clutched in my hand to catch the voice of a stray spirit. And the heavy stillness between midnight and forever stretched longer and longer...

And still I wait, waiting for the ghosts to return, to fill my head with their stories and their lives. But I do not wait idly. I have found ways to pass the time. Day by day, the tower of bird skulls grows taller, and as I stare at my bloodstained face in the mirror, I smile in the knowledge that I have not aged a day in years.

I feel like flying.  Like a duck.  A sort of lazy-assed trot across the sky.

I'm going home soon.  Permanently.  No more tri-state drives back and forth to work.  No more wandering days.  No more nights alone and longing.  No more nights away, stuck with petulant thoughts of dying seas and moonless nights.

My mom had lunch with my ex the other day.  They were not alone, they were with other people -- but still.  They were amicable.  And I'm not sure why.  Not sure how that makes me feel.  Tired, I think. 

The full moon blinds my weary red-blue eyes tonight, slithering my way through traffic, the vibrations of the road at higher speeds arousing my hardening member as I settle in for the long ride home....

By now the solitary journey across three states has become so numbing... I need more to make the moments feel alive. I often fantasize about my woman riding me in this position the entire time.... I pull my erect cock out of my pants and play with my thoughts until a hundred miles has passed and the trip is covered in cum..... My new wife suits me, better than any I could have thought possible. I love her more than life. And want her more than I am capable of giving myself.

Faster car.  Get me there before the silver moon vanishes and I lose myself in the mountains.

I have been accused of not blogging anymore, and I suppose it's pretty much true.  This past year has been a whirlwind journey for me, and my feet have yet to touch the ground.  With an Angel to constantly guide and misguide me into a myriad of grand rapturous adventures and white-knuckled free-falls, I may never rest comfortably again.... and I mean that in the best of ways (of course).... :-P

My thoughts and emotions have been filled with far too many expressions of joy and contentment lately to make for an exciting read.  My fantasy has become my reality.  What is there for me to long for?  I am married to the person who excites me most, who drives me wild *constantly*....