This is the final entry to the long series which began more than a year ago. The shorter
group of stories which has now been completed will be compiled into a single title with eight chapters.
Considering all of the work and difficulty in bringing the final segment to publishing, we may be
compelled to create a separate section to honor such a tale. That first foray into the nether regions of
fiction combined with feeling comprises more than three times the wording of the previous multi-part entry,
and may send the site into new directions.
"This is not good. I am not well. The story basically ended with part sixteen so this is supposed to wrap things
up with a bow. All nice and neat. Closure. An end which could lead to a beginning. Nope. No fucking way. I am
exactly the same. Fuck it. Here we go...
The time and lack of fulfillment are going to kill me. Perhaps not today or this week or even this month,
but one day I will no longer be willing to live with such a voided situation. Propping my public self has
become far too exhausting to maintain pace. More words, more Saturday mornings, and more glancing at the
second hands moving along toward the end. A few more stories, a few more drinks. That is all. The time has
gotten away, gone away, and been taken away. Away. Awry? Yes, that too. Awry. That is an apt descriptor for my
entire being. The obsession, desire, need for control, and that endless yearning for all that is unavailable to
me in these late days has combined into a blender of hell. I have pared the site down to only the last four years'
worth of tales and images which has left nothing positive. Why am I still here? Writing? Gushing? Because there
is little else which causes a joyous feeling. Food? Sometimes. Alcohol? Sometimes. What else? Hmm.
There is a chance that I reside precisely where I am destined. The emotional wreck that I am could
be penance for causing the same in other innocent souls. My inability to find a direction other than either
simply treading water or falling down may represent the Karma to which people refer over and over. Maybe? I
do not know because I do not know anything. The idea seems feasible, however. That type of inspirational living
has never found a home within me. I have been overtly and clearly negative for many years due to the knowledge
that I am exactly where I should be. The lack of a lift follows that thinking, especially considering the
reckless and uncaring behavior I have cultivated when dealing with those who care about me. And I have piled the
forceful negativity on top of said behavior. Decades of it. The more others have gently pushed me to help myself,
the more I have leveraged them into giving up completely. And then the running away. And then the drippingly
alcoholic and sex-infused journeys into oblivion. I do not blame them one bit for turning away from such a
self-induced wreck. All those years of reckless destruction are written clearly on the hand of Karma. They will
remind me of everything forever. And they should do just that. I deserve it. All of it. The Karma, the painful
passage of time, and the slow decline into senility which may have already begun.
The Karma. Where I should be after all of the shit? Perhaps. And then the time issue in my head
slowly working its way into every step of every day. I think and agonize over the progression of time due to so
many millions of seconds spent high in the heavens combined with the lion's share spent in hell. The same? Maybe.
One causing the other? More likely. It just keeps moving and falling away from me at an alarming rate, meaning
the time and memories are slowly destroying me as a result of those women. Falling away. Remember that one?
Well, it is a premonition from hell.
The work day. Uninteresting other than being in the financial district where the never-ending and
disproportionate slough of overwhelmingly attractive women appear at each street corner.
The exit has been illuminated many times in the past and returns often. My eyes see it, my brain understands,
however my hands have yet to make it happen. That door is the culmination of everything which brings me to my knees
over and over. The visions are but one facet of a stone that reflects my mood constantly. The knife, the
revolver, the pills. Just like those nights with the Brunette as each of us vied for position at the
head of the last line of life. We screamed, cried, pleaded with each other as the words flew across the room
like poisoned daggers. Aimed. Sharp. Cutting. Painful. We went back and forth for months in some distorted
competition to learn of who felt the strongest urge to die.
Not pleasant in the least. The situation was terrible, depressing, dire, drunken, all of it. Neither of us was
balanced in any way and I remember specifically the feeling of wishing day after miserable day to no longer be
upright or conscious. I needed silence in my head bad enough to wish for that door leading away from
everything. That set of symptoms is now freshly cemented yet again. Yes. That bad. The space I now inhabit has
shrunk so much that those little enjoyments fly by more quickly than the fucking seconds I watch so intently.
Memories of the isolated period of eleven and twelve are pushing me in the direction of replicating the manner
in which I interacted with others. Alone, away, unavailable.
Time. Gone. Still moving south with every letter. Each word. Think. Fall. Consider. Type. Agonize. Drink. Type.
Edit. Format. Smoke. Drink. Streamline. Scrutinize. Type. Publish. Drown. Why? Do you have the fucking answer?
Therapy? Nope. Did that several times and railroaded every fucking one of them into a corner until each gave
up in their own time. I will no longer attempt such a thing. No one can tell me that the obsession,
self-inflicted damage and loss of the Raven are ‘ok’. I will not have it. Andrea? What can be said to make that
pain go away? Michelle? Ellie? Juliette? All of them. Even Melanie and her caring words. Loving eyes expressing
concern. Nothing can take all of that away. Yes, there are ways of understanding and dealing with the memories,
however I am wallowing far too much to head in such a direction. I am not saying the possibility does not
exist, only that I need to carry them inside. Always. I do not want anyone taking them away. And the Karma may
not allow it anyway. Perhaps Karma means I have no choices left. Who knows?
Karma. Andrea. The Raven. Ugh.
The Raven was a soul unlike anyone else in life and Her loss feels now as it did in fifteen. Even the essay I
wrote about the way She looked at our first meeting has been pulled offline because it is one of my writings
that She actually read. I cannot place it back in the public eye anytime soon. It is too much. She read it and
then professed Her love for me. Loss, still leaving a gaping hole in my being. That will never go away and the
only thing which has the ability to erase the daily searing pain is death itself. Suck that, too. It may pass.
As the weeks roll by at high speed I am ever closer to telling the universe to fuck off. People, too. No one
listens because I am very difficult with which to deal. I make conversations arduous, stifling, and dead-ended.
I close every thought with my sharp, cutting, fatalistic vision. After a short time I leave others wishing
they had never addressed me in the first place.
Was it Karma which took them away from me? Does it work that way? Hmm. I am surprised to be sitting here after
years. Half of me wishes to go on and continue these stories for whatever they may be worth, while the other
half wishes that I had gone into the ground before ever choosing the tine of that fucking fork in twenty-ten.
I was close, by God. Very close. And now due to my decision to maintain the site and pour myself all over the
Internet, the outlet is killing me. People know. The words have been placed in the public eye. All of them.
There is more, but the more I throw it to the screen the more I fall. I just do not know what to do anymore.
The little things crop up from time to time and temporarily distract me, however the underlying feelings never
leave my head. Karma is a big word. Perhaps my years of living the lifestyle I have needed so badly are truly
penance for what I am mired within. Could be. The Raven felt strongly about Karma being somewhat of an issue
in Her life. We spoke at length about society, children, and the effects of being raised by those of
questionable mindsets. Standards, ethics, morals... Everything which shapes people and can create similar
personalities to those of their elders. We discussed our own feelings toward our two selves along with the
earliest years in memory. Karma was brought up often. At this point in time and after all the shit I have
graded aside and pushed toward the people who care for me, well, I just do not know anymore. The words continue
to swirl and I cannot see that changing anytime soon.
Now we come to the end. That end. Yes, and not just the conclusion of a story spanning three time periods
spread over nearly ten years, but the last of my ambition to share the wonderful and terrible paths I chose.
Here we go... bad.
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