January 24 diary

On a Thursday afternoon in January, I disembark from the train feeling sick. My stomach ached and my nausea would no longer be contained. I am not car sick or anything like that. I am always sick.

The train stops directly in front of a library and I drag myself inside to puke inside one of its bathrooms. The library has become a shelter for homeless people. They come in for all sorts of reasons: some to catch their breath from the strenuous lives; some to get out of the cold, some read, and some use the bathrooms to wash up and gossip.

I am hurling my guts out when a homeless hooker enters with her friend. My stomach feels as if I have emptied everything and I slip to the floor feverish and weak. My legs cannot move and it has become hard to breath. This is common in my life, so I sit on the floor and wait for it to pass.

In the stall next to me, the hooker complains to her friend how it hurts to urinate. She is practically in tears as she tries to relieve herself. Her friend tells her they should go to a hospital or a clinic and she says she has already been to one. The doctor told her to refrain from sexual activity for a while. She and her friend laugh hysterically at the doctors orders. Her friend is trying to wash up, while the girl and I suffer in the bathroom. I listen to their conversation, and between jokes and gossips, the hooker confesses that she met someone. “I hope he loves me,” she says. “I just want someone to love me.” I am almost in tears by this.

As they are leaving her friend bangs on my door and asks if I’m ok. I am too weak to call out. They leave assuming I  have passed out and will be found eventually. I cannot stay in the bathroom. There is no reception and I have to let my friend, who I am meeting in 1/2 an hour, know that I am too sick to visit.

I force myself up and out of the bathroom and stumble into an elevator. A man picks up my hat that I dropped and smiles at me. I say thank you in my best conversation voice. We ride to the ground floor where I look for a place with reception. I find myself outside, back on the train platform, the only place with a signal. The sun is bright. The January air is cool and comforting. But it is not enough. I begin throwing up on the platform..in a garbage can.

A man begins to rub my back and a woman asks if I need help getting to a seat. A street cleaner hands me some paper towels and asks if there is anything else he can do. Many are kind, some are annoyed with me, and others are pretending I am not even there. One man thinks I have food poisoning. I nod, knowing full well that my ailment is something else.

My friend tells me she is on her way and her boyfriend will drive me home. The minuets feel like hours. As I stand on the platform retching and feeling wretched I can only think of 3 things

1. Is how I have spoiled the outing with my friend

2. Is the spectacle I am making of myself

 3. Is how despite how far our lives are I feel an eerie connection to the hooker…the girl in the bathroom. The girl who is also on the train platform getting two different kinds of looks: sympathy and disgust. The girl who just wants to be loved.


Your heart has been breaking little by little



Your heart has been breaking little by little

Piece by piece each day, each year

You’ve forgotten what it looked like intact

You’ve forgotten what it felt like to feel complete

The holes left behind have decayed edges

To remind you further you’re a zombie in a shell

Each piece falls at it’s own rhythm

As if someone’s chipping away at your heart to sculpt pain

You’ve grown tired of trying to re-piece

The pieces never fit as well as they should

So you wait each day, each year

For the final piece to break off

Hold me tonight

All these thoughts I send to you,  laid out on sheets of white.

What I want is simple: come hold me tonight.

You’ve got a deadly kiss, but it keeps me alive.

Your hands feed my hunger;  your heart leaves me deprived.

You can leave when you want to;  I won’t put up a fight.

I’m not asking for everything,  just hold me tonight

Stepping away from writing

I read a quote saying something in regards to writing everyday. The exact wording I can’t recollect, but it was something similar to, the writing you do not do today is lost forever. I’ve always been an advocate of writing regularly until I saw the quote, and maybe it was simply the rebellious nature in me but I felt a need to disagree.

I don’t believe that going a day or two without writing will result in a loss of words or ideas. Writer’s block is not the product of irregular writing. Instead, I feel it necessary to step away from your work and breathe. Allow yourself to gain inspiration from life itself and not just your regular writing habit.

Sometimes you need that time to miss writing. You can easily take your talent for granted if you are constantly practicing it, but a few moments away to recharge can help you fall back in love with it and avoid tedium.

Now the quote I’m sure was trying to encourage writers to jot down the words they had in the present moment and this I agree with. But I don’t believe that what you want to say today will be said in the best way in that moment, nor will you lose all your inspiration if you don’t write it down. That sort of fear puts pressure on an already fragile and often stressful industry.

Sometimes not writing, and simply observing, feeling, thinking and living is the best way to become a great writer.

You were mine


You were mine, all mine

I thought nothing could tear us apart

Now you’re gone, so far gone

You made me love you then broke my heart

And I don’t think you’re ever coming back

And I don’t know what to do

But if you decide to someday turn around

Please know, I’ve always loved you