Breaking The Cycle of Madness

It’s been a frustrating cycle – this writing adventure of mine. I went through a phase where I could write anything. Thoughts would flow from my mind to the pages like a roaring river in the spring. Rarely, would I question myself. I was in a groove.

Then, it happened. I can’t pinpoint a moment, or a sequence. I don’t know where it started. It just … happened.

I couldn’t write. The thoughts I struggled to spew onto the pages in front of me, were “blood and sweat” words; the few that weren’t, came from thoughts written down months before. It went from a river of flowing water to a bogged down swamp.

It wasn’t that the inspiration no longer existed. My mind still swelled with stories. They played out like Broadway musicals on the stage of my mind. No, rather the words found difficulty leaving my mind through text.

Thus, the conundrum I currently reside in.

Horror fills my soul. If I cannot write, how then can I put into order the chaos that now dwells in me?

My demons take over. The demons are represented by past failures, self deprecation and loathing. I reason with myself that perhaps, I’m really just not good. I just can’t do it. These demons have haunted me. These thoughts have engulfed me before. I’ve given up on past dreams and pursuits, because of them.

Could I possibly give in again?

Many of my close friends and family have suggested I simplify myself. The answer: just write. No order. No story. Simply write. Is it truly that simple? I rationalize to myself all the reasons for an unstructured approach.

So, I am brought to this day, this post.

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.”
― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Well, I have part of that behind me. I read – a lot. And yet I still don’t read enough. Do I write a lot? Simple truths that still lead back to this: just write.

And so, I write this, completely unstructured. Why? To simply write. I want to break the madness within. I must start at the beginning. WRITE.

This could be my way of talking to myself. However, I have an audience to this madness … you, my friends – the readers. You get to watch as I talk myself out of this corner, through this murky swamp and out into the open waters again. What does this profit you? Perhaps … nothing. But, maybe, it WILL help you. Maybe you struggle with similar demons. If you do, know this, I support you. You are not alone. I will walk this path with you, to victory.

Even now, as I write this, doubts creep into my thoughts. However, I will not cave. This is my declaration. I’ll be damned if I cave to another self inflicted failure.

I must forge my path. I must conquer my demons. My life depends on it.

Absurd? No, it’s not. It is my life. It DOES depend on me and my decisions.

Here goes nothing …

Demons and Gods

It’s hard to reign in uncontrollable emotions. Difficult to capture what cannot be explained. I know. I fight it. Monsters. Demons. Shadows that drape themselves over my mind. The desire for relief takes me down troublesome paths. My mind is a causeway of ridiculous traffic. My soul is a murky, black puddle, a dark abyss. There is light. Trust me. It’s there. It has shined through at times. I have felt it. Him. I have seen Him. I know He is there. And then, the shadow comes again, hides His face from me. I can still feel His love, but it begins to be drowned out. It weakens, or my ability to feel it, weakens. What comes so easily for some, not so much for me. The battle is oft times a stalemate. I oft find myself face to face with my demon. He scoffs at me. Offers me a mask. Tells me he will go easy on me. And then rips my heart out and drapes my soul in madness.

Yet, what gives me strength through all of this? Knowing that no matter how much energy he puts into the disparaging of my soul, he can’t take away the one thing I hold dear… My undying, unconditional love for mankind and my unwavering love for Him. I stumble. I travel down the demon’s dark paths. I feel his lashings. Yet my joy and my spirit lives because I see other’s lives touched. Because I see other’s unmatched joy. I celebrate the success of other’s while he continues to rip at my insides. He may drag me to hell… but he can’t have anyone else. I’ll make sure of that. My demons. My battle.

 

 

2015: A Fresh Start – 2014: Reflection

It’s January, a new year. I’ve spent the last couple weeks in reflection of the last year. I’ve also spent a great deal of time looking ahead to this year.

2014:

Life is more than just an adventure. It is more than finding the next path or closing a chapter and opening a new one. It is a path of discovery. And I don’t speak of outside discovery alone, rather something inward. The discovery, it’s on-going. It doesn’t end when adulthood is reached. There isn’t a finish line of discovery or an ending point of complete realization.

This last year re-enforced that axiom. 2014 was a year of … self discovery. I learned more about my inner soul than perhaps I have at anytime. I discovered the very core of some of my emotions and passions. I delved into the abyss of my mind and faced myself. It wasn’t pretty. But facing myself, and my emotions provided me a sense of peace.

Am I there yet – to the end of self-discovery? Not even close. I’ve barely skimmed the surface. Am I a better man? Yes, yes I am.

The year 2014 also saw death drape its dim cloak over my surroundings. From a co-worker, here one day, gone the next; To my grandmother. I watched the veil thin and remove itself from her as she embraced passing. I humbly and with great emotion shared in memories that flooded my mind of my youth, and the wisdom that she passed on to me at early stages of my life. I stood with love and reverence in her legacy, my father.

I’ve declared 2014 as the Year of Morality, for me. I learned more about my physical thresholds than ever before. Yes, mortality has taught me a humble lesson.

And finally, the year taught me about myself as a creator and a writer. I met with challenges, failed the majority of them. But I learned the power of endurance and steadfastness.

2015:

A NEW year. NEW possibilities. New opportunities. The future is rich with treasures untold. I’ve begun this year with a new-found energy to press forward. I’ve discovered new avenues to channel my creative soul and even found ways to challenge myself to new heights of consistency. I started a new weekly column for a sports blog I write and edit for. The column pushes my limits and requires me to tap into my mind more frequently and with more precision. It pushes me to be more consistent as a writer. I was challenged in 2014 by the owner of the site to drive myself to new levels. And, I can say I’ve done so and continue to do so. It’s invigorating.

My mind flows with endless stories, and immense potential. I realize this now more than ever.

I joined a friend in beginning a new podcast, allowing me to discuss things that are a passion to me, sports and pop culture. In the process it allows me to be me at a new level. It too, pushes my limits of thinking.

And most importantly, this year gives me a new opportunity to be a better father and husband. I can write a new chapter. I get to be the best me yet. And why not? What do I have to lose? Nothing. But I have a new world to gain.

So, here’s to a new year. Here’s to new challenges. Here’s to all of you, joining me in making 2015 the best year ever.

Become the best you! Write a new brilliant chapter in your book of life! I can’t wait to live it, along with you.

May the Force be with you all …

Johnny Pheryl – The Hunted Or The Hunter?

The following is an excerpt from The Chronicles of Johnny Pheryl. The road ahead is still unknown, but I continue to write what comes to the stages of my mind. So follows:

 

A brilliant flash of lightening and clash of thunder rocked the port. Startled, Johnny sat up in a cold sweat. A keen sense of awareness rose within him. Raindrops began to fall on the roof, and soon the heavens opened into a torrential downpour. The room filled with light, as another bolt shot across the sky, and then faded to a dull gray again. He scanned the cold, dark room, his vision lucid and sharp. Each movement with his eyes came with precision and purpose. His senses flooded with brilliancy.

He heard padded footsteps. His vision scanned to the right where he saw a rat scurry across the floor. The rodent stopped, sensing he was being watched. He looked at Johnny’s eyes. They stared at each other for a moment before the rat continued, with even more urgency, across the room.

In nearly a millisecond of time, Johnny hoisted his utility knife into his hand, blade first, and hurled it at the rat. Blood spattered on the wall as the knife made contact with the rat’s head, crushing its skull and pinning it against the wall.

Satisfied by his first kill, he arose. His hunting instincts swelled within him and ice cold blood raced through his veins. He felt invigorated. He put his clothes on – black canvas pants and a black crew tee followed by his utility belt and shoes – walked over and removed the knife from the wall. He wiped the blood from its tip and returned it to the sheath on his belt.

He exited the quarters into the hallway. Her breath, deep and swelling, filled the silence. She slept in the next room.

With cat like reflexes, he slipped through the door and into the center corridor. Darkness blanketed the halls and quarters, but he could see everything as clear as day. He shifted without sound from room to room searching, seeking. His hunger for blood guided him. He hunted for hours, yet found nothing. Each room held captive only empty space and lonely walls. He desired to feel the bones of an unsuspecting prey, crack and shatter in his grip.

Having searched the entire port, finding nothing but emptiness, he returned to his quarters unfulfilled. He glanced at the rat that still lay, crumpled in the corner. His first kill of the night did not provide enough to quench his thirst. The desire for blood continued to rage within him without reprieve. He opened the window and let the rain enter. It splashed on his head and dripped off his brow, cooling the heat within. Steam rose with a playful wisp off his head. He gripped the windowpane with a tight clench. He clutched it with a fierce hatred, like a hellish demon waiting to shred the gates of heaven. The metal whined as it bent under the pressure of his grip.

“Johnny?” He startled but did not move.

 

“Are you alright?” The voice whispered with concern.

 

He lunged at her like a howling wolf, and pinned her against the wall in the outer corridor. She screeched and looked on him in terror. He clutched her throat with his right hand, lifting her up off the floor, and steadied himself with his left hand firmly planted on the cold steel wall. He pressed along the lining of her delicate jaw with his fingertips, the palm of his hand lodged against the soft cartilage and muscles of her throat. He applied pressure, slow and firm. He felt the bones and cartilage bend and give under pressure. His loan desire – to feel them crunch and see the eyes of his prey flush with blood as he squeezed the life out of her.

 

“Jo-hnn-y …” She gasped for air, pleading for release. “Plll … eeeas …se.”

 

Her eyes filled with horror and her pupils dilated. He beheld the darkness of her soul in the depths of her eyes. He saw the pure hell she currently experienced. Her pain rushed through is veins like the roaring of a river. He raised his head and inhaled with a deep drawn out breath and then released it with a demonic groan in affirmation of his triumphant kill.

 

He looked on her again; however this time, he did not see fear, rather he saw a woman in need of his mercy.

 

She whispered something inaudible and then proceeded to nod off into unconsciousness. He looked down at his grip around her throat and eased it off. She slid between his fingers to the floor in a crumpled, lifeless form.

 

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he lifted and carried her into her quarters. He laid her in the bed, drew a blanket over her, kissed her forehead and lighted away into the night.

 

The rain continued its torrential pace as Johnny ran out onto the landing platform. His body, drained of the adrenaline that rushed through him, slumped to the ground in a puddle. He drifted away into a coma, while the rain soothed his savage beast.

 

Unconditionally

The frailty of life
Life giveth
Death taketh away
I watch the decay
Your amazing beauty
Now brittle
Your beautiful mind
Now confused and lost
 
You once held me
Told me all is well
Your breath warmed my soul
I felt it against my cheeks
You were my comfort
You held my hand
You kissed my wounds
You loved me …
 
Unconditionally
 
Now …
 
You need me
 
Yet …
 
I watch helplessly
What can I do?
Why are we here?
Where is my comfort now?
You were always the one to tell me it’s ok
Now … It’s my turn

What do I say?
How can I help?
 
You were there
Every day
No exception
You welcomed me home
You kissed me goodbye
You worried over me
You bestowed my wings on me
You taught me to love …
 
Unconditionally
 
You …
 
I … I don’t know what to do
 
Except to love you …
 
Unconditionally

A Writer’s Soul … continued

A Writer’s Soul, the madness within … continued

The writer, with a few blood soaked pages, sits with his head buried in his arms. The look of exhaustion hangs over him like a dark rain cloud over a mountain meadow. He has written very little. However, it’s very apparent, he’s toiled heavily over the few words that appear on the pages.

His shoulders are burdened with the weight of the world … his world. It appears darkened and dismal, cracked and broken. The muscles in his shoulder are tense, hard as rock, and defined, yet they look ready to collapse under the intense pressure he bears.

The writer has poured his soul out. giving drink to all who would listen. His vulnerability is not masked or hidden, nor is his heart, that he wears on his sleeve.

In the writer’s mind, running wildly and free, are the lives and adventures of hundreds of characters. They visit faraway lands, travel through space and time, fall in love, lust for beauty, battle fiercely, kill with a bloodthirsty appetite and sail away on clouds of gold and silver. All the while, demons, past and present, haunt his memory and shroud his imagination. They torment and imprison his fantasies.

What is this madness?!

Instead of rejoicing in the magnificence of fairy-tales and fables, he mourns the death of ideas. The blood that fills the pages in front of him are memoirs of his personal, internal battles. They are pleas for help and relief from the shackles that hold his soul.

While his life may be a declared an open book, it really isn’t. A battle rages deep within his soul, like a roaring bonfire. Turmoil fills the caverns like a dark heavy mist.

Yet, through it all, he seeks nothing more than to lift his fellow man. He carries a world on his shoulders, filled with the cares and worries of others. All the while, he reaches out to be noticed. He seeks for love, and affection, and longs for relevance in an irrelevant world.

With blood on his hands, and sweat pouring from his brow, he has no choice but to carry on. Victory escapes his grasp, yet the jaws of defeat still wait a little ways off. He cannot turn back, only forward.

With a sigh, and a heavy heart, he picks his pen back up …

And writes…

*Read the first post in this narrative, entitled: “A Writer’s Soul“

Trapped and Alone

I lay here, in my prison, the drab walls and ceiling mock my every move. Deceitful shadows  taunt me in my dreadful state. I toss and turn, unable to find comfort. The silence is deadly, a cloud of nothingness engulfing my surroundings in a dismal black-hole.

The room begins to shift and move. The walls press down on me as the ceiling begins to collapse, enclosing me in a suffocating box. I turn in the bed again. I can’t escape my impending doom. Fear overcomes me. I’m trapped. The walls … my world … closing in on me.

I curl up and grab my pillow with desperation. I begin to cry. The meltdown is imminent. I glance at the shadowy ceiling, it’s closing in. I can’t get free. I can’t escape.

Somebody, anybody … help me! Take me from this place. Where is my solace? Where is my comfort?

The crying turns to sobbing. The tears flow without further restraint.

I have no where to turn, no where to run. My heart aches.

I am … alone …