The hospital waiting room was empty.

We had been secluded, my brother and I. Placed in a waiting room for the people who had enough money to ask for one, when really they had just placed us in a lounge and told us if anyone came in it was being occupied.

I was tired.

Working up to moments like these, you never expect them to happen, to sting you as much as they do and when they do (because they always do) it takes a lot out of you. It takes whatever fire you have out and you have to sit there and think about the last actions, the last words you said to whoever ended up on the hospital bed, dead-or dying.

He hadn't died yet.

The he, being my father.

But I knew, you always know they will.

I survey the room, note that the four walled room is gray, probably to evoke a sense of strong emotion, to drive the point home that something fucked up is happening and you have to sit there and deal. No paintings, adorned the walls, just a hanging television set-muted and playing a rerun of LOST. My brother had walked over to a vending machine, he remarked to me while pressing buttons “That if his brownie gets stuck in the machine then he's going to kill someone.” He's been standing there for a few minutes now, trying to push and tip the machine in order for his lodged confection to hopefully break free of the barrier holding it back.

“I wish I could sue these fuckers.”

I ignore him.

I shift in my uncomfortable though cushioned chair and cross my legs, feeling the denim tightening as I move my position. I play with the draw string on my black hoodie and wait for the time to pass, which it doesn't as my brother continues to talk out loud, to me, to himself.

“I wish you wouldn't sit there and act so juvenile.”

He says this a bit bothered and looks over me, running a hand over his slicked back brown hair. His brown eyes look at me-questioning me-saying what I could imagine something that went along the lines of “I don't want to be here, but he's our father and I have to be, just as much as you have to be.” I don't say anything as he adjusts the navy tie of his gray suit and sets his black coat down on a table that also held a copy of the Chicago Sun-Times. He coughs before sitting besides me and saying-

“I know this is hard for you.”

Which it isn't.

“But Dad is probably going to die.”

The thought doesn't linger, it drifts into the back of my head as I nod, not looking at him.

“So if he does, we have to be ready, kid.”

“I'm not a kid anymore Grant. You're like 4 years older then me.”

“I'm 24, you're 20. I'm more established Chris, you're still a fledgling.”

He says this all with just a hint of arrogance.

For a moment he just looks over at me and doesn't say anything before putting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. He stands and tells me that he's going to find the doctor who's supposed to be telling us what is happening to Dad and why it's happening. When he leaves, I stare up at the television and think about the episode that's playing right now, something about cowboys and daddy issues.

While I'm looking up, reading the subtitles on the muted television I think about the last time I spoke to, the last time I saw my father. It'd been over the summer at his (our?) home in Los Angeles before I moved to Chicago. It was late afternoon, the kind of lazy afternoon that leaves you restless, and or floating upside down in your pool just to see if you can flip yourself over once you start to run out of air. I had been doing laps in our pool, trying to at least get some excersise instead of just sitting around and watching old music videos. I had just made my 10^th lap when I saw him standing in the doorway of our large, sand colored ranch styled home. He was dressed, dressed for a meeting probably for some movie in production.

He didn't say anything.

He just stared.

He looked grim in his black suit and tie, he must've been hot but he looked cold, stone cold, the kind of cold someone who's heartless gives off. Or at least someone who wears an emotional mask. His white hair was slicked back ( a style my brother had either stolen from him, or the 80's I never asked) and he just wouldn't stop staring, so I stared back.

The next day I left for Chicago.

Here I am, back in Los Angeles, tired and wanting to leave all over again.

My brother walks back in, I can only assume it's been about half an hour because LOST is almost over. He's by himself and not saying much, instead he's rubbing his neck, loosening his tie and clearing his throat. I can tell he's upset, or rather bothered, extremely bothered but I don't say anything.

“Don't you want to know what the doctor said? Goddamn, you're always silent, do you ever care about anything?”

I shrug, not caring enough about how he feels to give him a real answer.

“Whatever, I talked to a doctor.”

“And?”

“And, Dad probably isn't going to make. They said it's alcohol or something, they gave me the details and everything. He must've drank himself damn near to death because it raised his blood pressure so much he had a heart attack. His heart has always been weak and now he just isn't responding. Nothing, I went in there and tried to hold the mans hand and nothing. No response, just cold, goddamn cold.”

“I didn't know Dad drank.” I say

“You're never around, remember ?” Grant shoots at me

He takes a seat next to me again and says “I'm going to start making phone calls, start contacting his contacts and start making funeral plans. You know what room he's in, you should probably go make amends, or something, whatever you have to do to make your transient peace with him.”

When Grant leaves, I don't say anything, or look at anything. Instead I sit there. I sit there and I try to piece together what went wrong-if anything went wrong, or if it was just me and my inability to cope that people simply make mistakes. That everyone is infallible.

I tremble.

I think of the day I settled into my Chicago apartment, he came to visit for an hour or two, he had come to drop off some money, see the place, you know. Critique my style of living. The studio apartment was slightly cramped but big enough to accommodate a lofted steel bed. He'd stood in the doorway making his appearance brief-

“I just want to let you know that you're doing okay, Chris. You're going to make shitty pay as a writer but you're okay. You'll figure it out someday son, but this is your life and all I can do is watch it happen.”

After he says this he hands me an envelope full of ten 100-dollar bills. I go to tell him “Thank You” and “I Love You” but he's left the studio already and I don't find it important enough to chase after him.

And now here I am. I'm shuffling down this long, white, hospital hallway. I try to ignore the sound of beeping machines and breathing apparatuses as I make my way towards his room at the end of the hall. When I open the door, the room is dark and he's laying, laying in his bed and he's bathed in white by the overhead light that I assumed was halogen. He looked pitiful, weak but peaceful.

“You've really fucked up now old man.” I say, under my breath

I move over to his side and touch his hand. Cold, like he always is.

He doesn't stir as I stand over him, examining his features, the every bump and curve of his face. He's breathing, breathing slowly and very thinly and I imagine that the moment is coming soon, at any second.

I can't figure out why I dislike him so.

I feel like sitting in the chair beside the bed, but I don't. I figure if my mother was here she'd be crying by now but she had given up on caring about him by this point. Trying to pinpoint where our relationship deteriorated I can't find an exact point, so instead I stand there, and stroke his head-trying not to be distant for once.

And like that he was gone.

No answers, no reasoning as to why he drank himself to death. No long talk about why we don't have a relationship. Instead he stops breathing and the sound of his heart monitor flat lining fills the chasm of silence I'd help create. I can hear footsteps in the hall, so instead of waiting for them to get there I take some items sitting on the nightstand next to him and walk out of the room, past the nurses, past the doctors and towards the elevator.

I can hear Grant calling to me as the elevator closes.

In the lobby of the hospital I trifle through the items I took, nothing but junk. A magazine someone must've left, some envelopes from when I assume Grant came to visit. I'm about to discard them when I come upon an envelope that has my name written across the front in curse “Chris Hume”.

Ripping it open I find a small white letter, nothing more and it's folded, folded into a rectangle and it has visible ink stains from whatever type of pen he was using. I unfold it and read what it says, slowly and to myself.

You're doing Chris. You're doing okay.

I don't ball up the letter, instead I stuff it into my jeans and fight back the urge to cry for once. What was he thinking? Why did he write this? Did he know he was going to die? The fact that he committed suicide wouldn't cross my mind until I put the thought together with the note. His goodbye-note or whatever you want to call it had been him saying in his own way “You're okay, kid.” I don't fight back the urge to cry, instead I fight the urge to storm back into the hospital room and beat him back to life. To demand some sort of closure I was never going to get.

I wanted to cry.

Instead I would step outside the lobby, and take in the chilled Los Angeles air.

taking this with a grain of salt by default this falls apart

TRUE BLUE.

even if.

I make this difficult, I know and I understand that my actions have consequences and that one of them is not having a bond with my father. It hurts because he is my father, and as much as the two of us would love to know each other I don't think we will. You grow up, believing that your parents are infallible and perfect and you look at them with love and honor and then you grow up and don't know how you feel about them, or their decisions which have nothing to do with you but have everything to do with you. Because everyone has feelings but no one thinks about the scope of their decisions, or how they become afraid of their decisions and don't want them known or thought about or used against them which is something that won't ever happen. I will always love my father.
Always.
But I know, that a large part of my life comes from how I feel about him, and how our relationship makes me react to other people, and how I love other people. I feel selfish, but I feel like I can say this. I have to say this. This is my right as an adult, as a son, as what was a child.
I don't know how to have a relationship with my father. I remember our first argument, concerning my mother, and how it took us a while to talk after that. I don't even think it was about my mother, in retrospect. I think it was about wanting him to be with her, and not with anyone else-for him to be in her life like he was in his girlfriends. For him to be in my life always. I envied my friends who had married parents, and it bothered me that my parents weren't. But you can't change things you know?
And then I found out I had brothers, which hurt me. Everyone wants to be their fathers only boy, his only son-which was a belief I always carried with me until I knew. This shouldn't have affected me as much as it did but it hurt, and still does when I think of it. I can't be mad about my older brother, but my younger brother-
It crushed me. My mother doesn't know-but I do. And perhaps it isn't her business but how old is he now? I'm 19, which makes him 8, I was 11 when he was born. I got over the knowledge of my older brother within months, I would've loved to have known him and seen him for who he might be and who I look like-and take after, and act like.
but the younger-I don't want to acknowledge him. To tell the truth, I hate him and I feel like he's taken a part of me that's already been stretched thin and is now almost non-existent. I shouldn't feel the way I feel, but I do, and I realize that in the larger scheme of things this has a greater effect on me than I've realized or come to accept. It makes it worse to know that I was supposed to have been told about this-years ago and that it never happened and still hasn't happened.
and it hurts. And I feel like I don't belong, and though through blood we'll always have a bond, but that I'm not fully a son, it's wrong but I've always felt like a burden. Which is why I've never asked for anything. Which is why I only ask for help through school.
I was eager to stop being lonely and get to know him and make us something.
But you get older and realize that those opportunities have dwindled and now it'll be the hardest thing to accomplish.
I'm growing up, I'm not as responsible of an adult as I should be- but I feel like I've made something of myself even though I completely haven't had any large achievements yet. I've graduated high school without problems, I kept a nice group of friends and never had to be reprimanded on large decisions-or actions that could have negatively impacted my life. I survived never really being a teenager and taking care of my grandparents, and being the rock for my mom when she needed one. I got into college and I found what I want to do with myself which is be a writer and tell stories, and make people feel and realize things they wouldn't if they never thought about them.
Now, I'm almost 20 and the recurring theme of a need for him in my life isn't as a large as it used to be. To have him in my life will always be appreciated and though I'm never outwardly thankful, I am always internally gracious.
and it still hurts.

journal fragments.

dreams arent something i have much of between the ringing in my ears from the grenade in my heart

So hard to believe what you're looking for, so hard to believe what you're looking for so hard to believe what youre looking for sohardtobelievewhatyourelookingfor

TOOK TWO. and called you in the morning brown eyes for chicago thighs This is my treetop This is my house brokeback wishes on fountain top dreams I owe(d) you one more than I owe myself caught up on giving up but we all disappear somewhere (disappear here) baby keeps b(r)eat(h)ing down my neck Took the nose and hung myself Everyone wants to be someone, Everyone wants to be someone else, To my savior, I can't deal I'm just a chicago boy with chicago crazy, Carina tells me theres crazy in the water and I'm the obvious byproduct, no one born here sees but if you look outside yourself you know, the city is made of teeth and everyones a cavity stretching across the surface the sun comes up on an open mouth and I think I'm having panic attacks thinking about the true blues that come from me and you. I remember high school I remember being in the back of a van with a shirt over her head I remember skatepark mondays and pot smoking tuesdays ditch drivers-ed wednesday and best friends thursday Fuck friday we live for the weekend and I miss it, I miss it, I miss tony and jose and everyone that meant something to me before i started making a dream for myself, this is all dream I don't want to write, I just want to runaway, I forget where I come from. What I'm doing here. It's so redundant. theres a lock around my lips, sinking ships, I want to mean everything.

every day the same joke. i never think its funny.

I got caught up on giving up
something I thought I never had
watching ghosts crack the pavement
we all disappear somewhere.
disappear here.
"I use to be a lifer", hanging from the strings of every word I never got to say. I mutter phrases and smile out sayings that I hope get the better of my chest and make you fall in my heart. It's a fighter, a soldier and when it gets dragged down it takes the boat with it. The show, the circus and the band. It's an anchor and it keeps me weighted down and level with the tangibles of my life. The intangibles get stuck in my head and find their way to my hands where I beat this notebook black and blue until a plan comes out. A heist, a gem, a witty little pop song that'll sell your ears and eyes something that'll make this last. I've been a boy, I tried to be a man but I get stuck on my own pages and slip into the dark. Lighting matches to lead you to me, in the darkness of your room "This makes things easier". Easiest when made with love. Harder when genuine. We relive failures in your sheets and when you cuddle up close to me I place one foot out the bed and the other in the streets. Red Lines, Brown and Blue. Took a marker to these windows to dream another you.

I've been singing the blues that brought me to you.

I look like a victim. Slender, skinned and scarred. My eyes run a deep brown, almost black just like my finger tips. I dipped them in ink and tried to write myself a book is what I told you. The truth was I painted myself a portrait and all I found was shit. I tugged at my rings, hemalyte and too small for my fingers. Nothing ever comes off of me once it gets in. That goes for hearts and hymns. You sung once into my ear and told me "Keep this a secret", I obliged and fixed my collar finding my way in the darkness of your heart. You laughed and said my shirt was too tight "A little small, for such a big man, eh?" The colors of my button down were burgundy, gray and a gum-colored pink. Your hand ran against my leg and I felt my phone shift in my pocket. Vibrating against my thigh, the softness of your touch ignited the phone calls that I never wanted to answer. "When will you be home? I miss you. I want you." in one long run on sentence. My face pressed against your pillow where I smelled the cigarettes and hands of a million other souls luckier then me. The girls you kissed. The boys you dissed and I found it in myself to never care. You stained my pillow case. My voice never gets above a whisper, a scream that gets drowned out by the love around me. I want it, like I want you. Brown eyes and raven hair, and your shirt was made by American apparel. Clinging to every inch of you that you wanted me to see. The same with your jeans, over the curves, just stopping above the tattoos on your hips. I wanted to die. Lips are pressed and locked and mashed until all thats left are two bodies, formless and true. Laying next to you gets my mind off of everything I can't have. Laying with you makes me regret ever seeing you. I'm remembering cold winter nights on your front porch where you told me I'll always dress for summer even when it's cold outside. Button downs and hooded shirts in the middle of a snow storm. I fell off the bed in hopes of falling out of love. Crawled my way to the door and snuck into the Northside streets, every street light reinforcing that secrets never stay in the dark. Red Line home and out your heart. I'll see you in another life.


dreams arent something i have much of
between the ringing in my ears
from the grenade in my heart
writing goodbyes and hellos in boxes that get x'd
looking for o's
wanting this bed for one
to be looking for two
or maybe just a post-it note
on my arm.

my head feels like its made of cotton swabs.

It's all comparable to roman candles, the explosion, the lights, the silence and darkness that follows the eruption. We all went out in a hail of lights and now that the show is over I don't know if i'm comfortable with the after effects.

I want to go to home.
roadtripping, daytripping, robotripping my way through the comfort of your room, painted blue, wide eyed. Bright sunny skies keep us indoors, behind smoke grey blinds that pulled to a close as you disrobe, the black shirt that hides your northern pallor, not tan but a darker shade of white. I'm not too white, at least thats what my skin says but my friends say differently through laughs, and I don't mind much seeing that I don't care much about anything or anyone until I have to, laying up in a hospital bed I figured out that the more you pay attention to the death rattle, the more you see the spirit leave the body, like the night I watched her die on that white sheet amongst the mother, the family and me, not crying but desperately believing that I could see her breathe and that the doctors had made a mistake, but in this world I know I can't come back once someone pulls my number unless I hide behind like a coward and prolong this until I can't prolong it any longer. I kiss your lips, soft because I don't want to bruise them, red, deep red, like the underwear you wear, wore, over your knees to the ankles, little thoughts, big thoughts, I don't know, I don't know, I just know I'd like it better if you were with me. Parents. My dad has a girlfriend. Your mom has a husband. My heart has an ache. X's and O's. Black and blue ink stains where my lips used to be. Fuck. Fucked.
I want to go to home.

Heartworms and Regret-The Abridged Edition

Losing people, anyone, hurts me a great deal.
Losing friends, losing a friend that means the world to me, completely kills me.
watching a friendship go down in ruins because you can't be honest, because you are scared of hurting someones feelings takes a toll on me, it picks me apart and makes me reconsider if I'm the dude I promise I am.
In truth, I'm not, being strong is one thing but being stupid because you're scared of what consequences WILL occur isn't strong. It's weak, because if you're brave enough to take that chance to FEEL then you should be brave enough to take the chance to tell someone how you truly feel about them regardless of the outcome. Telling someone you like them, giving your heart is a privilege and if they can't accept that task then they aren't worth the grief, worth the inner crazies and worth the turmoil that comes from giving someone a piece of yourself. You have to be brave enough to take a hit and walk away. To get dumped on and get up and walk it off. You have to be able to be honest with someone and let it go.
I will tell you this now: I am not worth your inner crazies, and the turmoil that goes into genuinely liking someone.
The Heartworm, outside you're fine but on the inside you've got that feeling, you've got that lump that forms from not saying what needs to be said and doing what needs to be done.
I invest myself in the idea that if I can be honest I can be true, and if I can be true I can be a good dude, but so much goes into the idea that you're a good dude once you become aware of what it is, and what you must do in order to really be one. Self-sacrifice, fucking pulling yourself away from things, from people that WILL bring you down.
and thats what this is about. being that good dude.
I want to take ( ) by the arm and tell (

) that "I swear I'll find my way. Just forget about me until I do."
but sometimes we don't want to.
I realized a while ago that I pilot my own plane. That I HAVE to take the wrong turns and end up lost in order to end up fine on the other side. It doesn't end up well most times, but I learn something from everything I fuck up. It just sucks when you come out on the platform, fuck up your landing and completely destroy everything you've worked so hard to obtain. Only to lose it because you think you know best, because you want to do things your own way. Well, shit, of course we have to but we have to take into account the consequence that follows piloting your own plane without listening to precaution and intuition.
Living in this city can bring you down, it can help you out and it can hurt when the only person under the grey spires that feels like you do no longer exists to you.
I want to be a good dude.

i just don't want to lose anymore people.

cells made of pixels.
butch walker thursday, smiths friday
buildings made of teeth, windows shaped like eyes
it is 5 in the morning and I cannot sleep.

"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed"

Not my fathers son
"It is the time you have spent with your rose that makes your rose so important"
the mistake we make when we grow older is that we promise our children that the world is theirs, that the world is beautiful, and we neglect to tell them that the world is as full as much shit as there is flowers and it's their job to make it theirs, amidst all the shit they have to shovel and push through.
i'm never to sure about anything, anyone.