Love in the Age of Terror

  1. Eternal

(I entered the scene; black shirt, black jeans, a can of cider, bought at the liquor store where I didn’t pay for my cigarettes this one time; I walked out and ran, justifying the theft as karmic justice: Who doesn’t have a bathroom?)

How can the eternal begin but with the idea of heavenly bliss?

“We are doomed to choose, and every choice may entail irreparable loss”

I chose out of some skewed concept of autonomy: a hand had held my shoulder.

I should have known better, should have known

——That karmic justice was awaiting me: (There is no patriarchy here)

Who said that and why did they lie ——-

That escaping horizontal violence didn’t mean

I was free from pain;

The hand that touched me was eternal

felt like home; like a friend that I never wanted to lose; enter hypothermia

I thought the priest was honest when he said love would come to stay

Love did feel eternal, but eternal meant:

[Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it]

I did eventually find a bathroom.

Maybe the eternal is the rush of the urine as it hits the water

The mix can always be reversed;


The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the stench of being a person.
  1. Climax

Aren’t climaxes supposed to feel like the resolve of a conflict

Or maybe I’m confused

And the climax never ends

But continues going on

Like the way dreams envelop images

And in the images the hand that felt eternal suddenly feels

To be floating away.

  1. “Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else”

poem pic 2

The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the slow acrid banality of existing.
  1. Denouement


And then the stillness

There is always a body

the texture of a body, next to me

prying the warmth away

until the stillness comes

and they leave.

Stillness is the drops

that fall from my metaphorical eyes

because the real ones have stopped responding.

My hand aches for his skin

my soul aches for something tangible.

I rest



Fragmentation: my trauma

The fragments pull,

what fragments and how exactly can objects, or ideas, or parts pull and in what direction?

I suppose the fragment of forgetting,

the fragment left behind by compartmentalized pain,

What exactly do we mean when we say trauma?

It all goes back to the concepts of consciousness and memory,

but we discussed that memory is often reinvented, remade

the balloon suddenly appears and it is red

never-mind that you never consciously perceived it,

but it is there,

an explanation to the fuzzy image that distracted you and made you vulnerable.

Perhaps the falsification of memory allows us to exist beyond violation.

We not only invent after the fact but interpret memory in whatever way

allows us to exist, allows us to not jump when the subway zooms by,

so when I woke up with no memory,

I remembered the question, that I would have theoretically posed:

I never expressed my consent, except in remorse,

in the crawl on the floor, in the rising anxiety, in de-realization,

in letting you touch me again,

until I couldn’t anymore.


The Instant Love; a formula

The liquid dripped, it dripped in an instant

falling from the inside of my crevice

to the leg which sustains me.

It’s almost funny to think

that every experience

that is had

is only perceived to be real

by the sensory organs in the body

and so eventually it all fades.

I keep wondering often

about the illusion of feelings

and whether I will ever

fall so deeply that I won’t rise alone.

Instead leaping up to move

from point a to point d

the point of not being a singular

but of trusting enough to be a second

and yet a first.

humanity has redirected the desire

for stimulation and pleasure

and instead made themselves vaguely aware

of the death instinct,

living moments as though the immediate does not matter.

I looked at the dripping liquid,

it dried on my leg instantaneously

That’s the magic of the male orgasm,

it flows out, hits something and then is over

in many ways the same way as being with someone who

can’t be forever.

They appear, hit you, make you feel

and then leave as though

you could simply wipe off feelings.

Violence and Ideology

I learned a good amount in the last five years. I say a good amount because every class was divided into fulfilling some pedagogical purpose. It’s been a month now since I finished but the world continues to revolve around in its orbit. Looking back at the fragments of information that my brain collected, I see mainly the beginnings of my hypothesis about ideology. Ideology is not singular but plural, competing for the attention of many, while seeming invisible, almost non-functioning. When I think of ideology I first of all think of Erich Fromm’s theory of the human necessity for belonging. In Escape from Freedom, he outlined that food and shelter are mere necessities of survival and that in order for man to survive he must have some sense of belonging. Such belonging is not just a call for love or friendship but is often actualized through ideology. Ideology as a word is but a vague explanation of a worldview that gives the person a framework through which they see, participate, and understand interactions and events. It is at this point that I must pause to think back on Marx’s theory regarding human consciousness. Material conditions determine man’s consciousness. And I struggle now to recall the name of the theorist that spoke about how the material is formed not from an isolated economic base, but from an economic base that is determined through government policy. I lied and I do recall the name of the person who made this phenomenon possible. His name was Pollock and he named such a phenomenon state capitalism. And so Marx’s theory about the inevitable crisis of capitalism and lack of growth of capital is undermined. In its place Lenin spoke about the appeasement of the working class through the governmental policy of imperialism. i pause to realize that I know nothing but that oppression is built into the system of capitalism. Such oppression was of course pointed out by Marx, who decried religion but also decried such conditions of oppression. And so the Communists forgot to decry oppression when they decried religion, instead twisting the theory to state that all bourgeois ideology is the only oppressive ideology, making the way for a theory that became what it opposed. What is oppression anyway but violence? Violence pervades the 21st Century. The chaos is so great that often people point to the weapon as the agent of violence and forget that violence has long now been a chain. I in no way seek to undervalue the terror that occurred in Florida. I imagine the fear that entered the people’s hearts, knocking until they stopped and collapsed. Is it awful that I think of the pain in the shooter, who grabbed a weapon perhaps envious of the freedom that homosexuals can exert; While he a Muslim is ridiculed and unacknowledged as a human being, made instead to be in connection to what only began as a chain of violence, Isis. All ideology is two-sided spouting love in some way and hate in another. That man was told to love his God, and he was taught to love through hate of those who dishonored his God. How is that different from nationalism, capitalism, democracy, communism, racism, sexism, and any system that makes a sectarian worldview? The problem of the 21st century is sectarianism. Man now free to choose a worldview, free from the sacred hell of the past, is allowed to choose. The lack of unity, something that was once a Utopian fantasy, of being free without chains, has allowed for the growing division and a decrease of recognition to those who are most vulnerable to enter the chain of violence that has long existed. The person that most taught me perspective was William Faulkner, who never made the plot unilateral, but also showed all the contradictions in understanding one event. At some point in his most brutal novel, Sanctuary, the narrator, a lawyer, Horace Benbow, notes the fatalism of justice and says: Perhaps it is upon the instant that we realize, admit, that there is a logical pattern to evil, that we die, he thought, thinking of the expression he had once seen in the eyes of the deal child, and of other dead: the cooling indignation, the shocked despair fading, leaving two empty globes in which the motionless world lurked profoundly in miniature (221). Right before such quote Benbow realizes the connection between violence and ideology, which can never be understood in one action but that must be understood as a ripple, with the judge only seeing the immediate action that had resulted in some violation to be payed by the perpetrator: a debt as Nietzche said. The perpetrator was not to be isolated but part of some circumstance that had resulted in the event to be judged. And it is right here that I must return to ideology, because ideology allows people to judge one single event in one certain way. People never quite think about the complexity, the wounds, nor the death that cannot be seen. And so we create more ripples, add more fire, allow for more violence, because the hurt underneath such violence is never addressed but instead made into a fire. It has only been one day and already the connection between one man and his ideology of hate has been pointed out, of course only creating more hatred and more violence. The point is not to blame the weapon, but to examine the conditions that keep adding fire to the hatred. Ideology against ideology and money as the only commodity to give recognition to any ideology. A few moments…of silence



For those who die in this pattern, fed by the only ideology which is present in all ideologies: hatred and lack of love.

Why I left

I left not because love was lacking nor because I didn’t love the world we had created. Instead I left out of fear that the constant passionate turmoil of our relationship would eventually turn dangerous. Sometimes when I think about leaving, I want to turn around to his arms and forget that I am more than just a half. I keep listening to the song cosmic love. Our love was cosmic and beautiful but it was also full of explosions and attempts to dominate each other. It no longer felt progressive. I could have stayed and attempted to make something change but I have done that before and found myself lost. Am I still lost? In some ways I am lost but in other ways I am strong. I will forever miss the way that it felt to touch his skin. I even miss the turmoil. He changed my life and I broke his heart. I broke mine too. I keep trying not to cry; Don’t cave. The relationship was becoming unhealthy for some time. I had to take a step back because I didn’t want to be engulfed by darkness. I left to find my own light and now I have to think about how I left him behind. Growing up is not easy. Sometimes we have to listen to our brain and not our heart.

Tonight was an End but an End is a Beginning

Tonight I could write the saddest lines or I could stuff my face with the rum raisin ice cream in the fridge but instead I will write about the way my character has developed.

I did cry tonight and I roamed around holding yet another cigarette in my hand. I attempted to fall but I couldn’t. Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet that we broke up but maybe I just think that I couldn’t do anything to save the relationship. Even if it hadn’t ended he was talking about pulling away. 

I know that I’m hard to love but maybe someday someone may think it’s easier than he did. I suppose after your third heart break, you just know that there is hope and that love does not end with one person. It’s always painful to see someone go. And the thought of the person who held you, holding another is almost unbearable. But after getting used to people leaving, and breaking, and scraping, one day your heart just becomes numb to it all. 

It still hurts. I won’t act like I’m some emotion zombie but it doesn’t hurt like it did the first time. The first time may not have been the most beautiful but it is the most painful both emotionally and physically.

I didn’t turn on evanescence nor Lana del Rey today and instead opened a playlist full of new songs. New music brings happiness to your brain; it’s proven. 

Even the darkest has arms is the title of the song currently playing and it’s true. When I was depressed the dark always seemed to have a power that the day lacked. Maybe in the dark I could breathe because I didn’t have to pretend to have it all together. 

I am a very difficult person to love but I have a right to be an individual. I’m not losing myself, I can give my time but never myself. I may lose one hundred more people but at the end of the day I have myself and as long as I can live with myself, the rest doesn’t matter.

I’m working on my thesis and I’m reading lolita. I always fall in love with the language of the novel. I can try to be critical but I am instead mesmerized by the magic that words can make. 

I do not want to be an easy book but instead want someone to find my complexity enthralling and beautiful.

I have much to do still to better myself. I have to lose 25 pounds still. But I have hope that one day I may reach a place where I feel comfortable being my imperfect self. I wasn’t enough this time. To be honest after the fights I almost feel incompetent to ever be in a relationship. I just heard you suck, you’re such an asshole, you don’t get it so many times that I can’t be sad to not be in a relationship where I wasn’t enough and I was the problem. Being alone hurts but it’s better than constantly feeling like a problem. I was somewhat an awful person but bad habits die very slowly. Maybe the best bet is being alone and working on my thesis, my life, my knowledge, my netflix queue, my summer reading books, and most of all myself. 

I’m closing this relationship by trying to be a better version of myself for myself. 

The Light

Sometimes you have to shed an old life to find a new one. But at times this life shedding is not something chosen but just happens. I am thinking right now about how much time we devote to being part of something. And it almost makes me laugh at how easily this artifice crumbles. But was it an artifice. Words are supposed to carry all this weight but words can only mean whatever meaning we give them. And even if we try to give a statement meaning, people can twist and turn such meaning into whatever they want to see. Shakespeare created Iago in Othello as a figure of human manipulation. Iago uses people’s fears and thoughts to create visions of realities that do not really exist. And by twisting words we can also twist reality. I am thinking right now of the nursery rhyme “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me”. And I can’t refute that statement but I also can’t refute the fact that at times the statement changes to words will break my heart. The point in the dissonance between the statements is that they are true at the same time. Words do break hearts but they only reach to the extent that we allow them to reach us. 

I am at this point understanding myself in new ways. I realize that I am not the perfect christian but I also realize that God doesn’t expect me to be perfect. He just expects me to try and even when I willfully disobey God’s teachings he does not become angered. He is the ultimate forgiver. Beneath words are intentions. God does not just see your words nor your actions but sees your intentions. If God expected us to be perfect he would not have created confession. We would just be perfect or perish. 

This season of lent is a gift that I have been granted. I will use the season to forgive others and to accept my own shortcomings. Ultimately losing a friendship on earth is difficult but inevitable. Honestly people expect too much from others and this makes relationships fail. I am also working on accepting that perfection is not a realistic expectation. And God has finally taught me that silence is the greatest words that my mouth can utter. 

Every time that I begin a new post, I always try to go somewhere but I am always led back to God. I am a sinner. I am too liberal at times. But in the end my love for God never breaks. God’s love is my strength and home. Even when life gets tough, God is my refuge. My old life was similar to my new one except for one thing. Things used to devastate me. I used to become frantic about exams and essays. Now I am at peace because now I know that darkness has a light and that light is God who never leaves. 

The Starry Scars


I would like to feel the fizz of club soda explode as it makes it’s way down my body. Would it kill me? i’m not qualified to make such an assumption.

But I do know how it feels to love someone so much that you stay despite the way that their words consistently carve holes inside of you.

I know how it feels to show your weaknesses to a stranger; the feeling of making a home out of someone who eventually fades away.

Emptiness, hunger, they are all things we feel and must learn to dominate. There is no reason to eat a whole cake, and no reason to briefly open up to strangers who stir no emotion inside our souls.

But I have done both in my search to self-fulfillment.

I used to be afraid to sit alone.

Because alone felt explosive; alone pushed me to places that never felt like home.

These places left edges and edges of residue around my once, now lost, purity.

It took pain and loss to reach the peak of the mountain.

I didn’t climb up but fell and fell until the only option was to fly.

So near my greatest fall, I sighed and wings held me as I made my way up.

I stumbled because wings were unnatural, I had once been chained and now I had wings.

Flowers began to become part of my daily attire because flowers promised springtime

and I had to navigate a dark tunnel.

I started to notice the people who try to climb on the back of others

And I realized that people are not portals and they cannot heal the scars within our souls

Scars were made so that one day we would reflect the beauty of our downfalls;

Even stars are supernovas that once exploded but look at how brightly their destruction lines the sky.

I am now an empress of my own solitude and happiness.

And I will sit not on a throne but on the grass reaching towards the stars;

One day our pains will align.