Faded Like The Grace Of Long-Forgotten Ghosts (A.K.A. Hell Is For Heroes Part II)

It was these first desperate attempts at putting music to our misery, wailing away at words stolen from long-forgotten notebooks: "I save my money, but it can't save me / And I wish I knew just how it felt / To be free . . . " The overweight drummer pounding out a jagged reconstruction of a broken heart and a world-weary audience of the finest human wreckage around, laying witness to this, the fatal fucking outcome of our dead and decaying adolescence.

It felt as though fires were burning inside of our lungs, manifesting themselves as an army of syllables torn violently from the throats of so many black tie suicides. The kind of fire a man would gladly allow to burn him down to ashes and framework, if only so he may embrace the perception of hope and warmth . . . you know, the kind of concepts that grow dimmer in meaning as the years carry on.

Within the confines of this growing maelstrom effloresced a momentary union of reverie and understanding, lacing the crowd together in one final rapturous chorus. Within our hearts grew the singular notion that the echoing of our words would be enough to keep the outside world at bay, even as these walls continued closing in so fucking fast around us.

One by one, like the burden of dead leaves in autumn we surrendered our sweat-soaked bodies to the ever-present pull of gravity. Spinning out of control, bracing for the eventual kiss of concrete against my face, but a crowd-full of arms were ready and waiting to break my fall.

As the final strings of hope holding us together ripped away a growing fervor engulfed the audience. Soft yet malign it undermined the rhythm with a crystal-clear melody to all of our darkest fears: "It took you so long to find the words to write this song, a song that you could all still truly believe in, but even you don't truly believe that we can still start again."

Then the blood-stained guitar was ripped from my trembling hands, and . . .

Yes, the sympathy was real.
No, I will never admit this to your face.

Denial of intimacy will lead to solace in isolation.

Last night I had a dream about the end of the world.
Last night all of my friends had the exact same dream.

I wish I could dream it again.

I was once your age, Mark. I have felt the pain you speak of.

Sweet Neon

I keep having dreams about this girl named Rebecca. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has short brown hair worn in a bob. She has a smile that makes you feel like the only person in the room. She loves reading obscure underground novels and writing first-person narrtives in her spare time. She also has a nasty habit of whoring herself in unmentionable ways for college money. One day she winds up a wee bit preggers and everyone she hangs out with abandons her. This sudden abandonment causes Rebecca to slit her wrists, killing them both.

Throughout the dream I find myself falling in love with Rebecca, despite the fact that we've never met anywhere outside of this dream. Even after watching her do the things she does, I can't help myself. I'm sorry that I can't go into too much depth here - the details of the events that took place are simply too disgusting to share.

In addition, there is an unmarked notebook that gets passed from person to person throughout the duration of my dream. It holds everyone's most interpersonal thoughts, fears and dreams. Each entry is typed, making the notebook legible for everyone to read.

Rebecca's last entry: "Tonight the stars are less bright. Death is coming, so let me go. You can't love a ghost."

Throughout the dream Rebecca and I find random quotes written on scraps of paper scattered everywhere we go. Neither of us have any idea who they are written by, but after comparing handwriting conclude that the quotes are all written by the same person, possibly a time traveller. One quote that sticks out in my mind was found by Rebecca, crumpled-up and left on the basketball courts after school.

"Life is a series of losses. They build up over time and make us who we are. Just make sure you pick the right losses."

When I awoke I wanted so badly to add to the notebook, but seeing as this notebook does not exist outside of my unconsciousness, I grabbed the biggest marker I could find and wrote my sentiment on the nearest bare wall. When I came home I dyed my hair the darkest colour I could find. A darkness that would put the night sky to shame and suffocate the brightest halo.

"Angela . . . the bridge burns itself."