nemo williams

“clouds (written half-awake at one o’clock, this a.m.)”

(So: since I decided to relaunch this blog a few hours ago, I decided to start reposting some older stuff — material that was on here before I abandoned this blog / picked it back up. Cheers.)

moon1

and what a thing to be:
pale, proud ghost against the weight of the night,
a milky white island in a darkening sea.

Calm it stays, even if it sees the abyss,
whether by wind, or shaken by a kiss.
but baby i know we’ve both witnessed this dance before:
wild & wicked, too much to ignore,
like holy birds of love, locked in eternal war.

Gather your worries, shake off your dust,
and circle with me around the moon;
make it fast, I hope to see you soon,
before we are gathered away in a gust.

nemo williams.

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interlude (meditations): a window at night

moon2

(so, since I decided to relaunch this blog tonight, I decided to start reposting some older stuff — material that was on here before I abandoned this blog / picked it back up. Good to see you again…?)

As my depression grows and dips and sways and blossoms until it reaches its truest, angriest form — a black hole — I find myself with my head through the first-floor window of my bedroom, breathing in the night air, trying to stop myself from spinning and spiraling into the angry black hole, as if the night air is the only thing stopping me from falling into the molecule-blasting black vortex. (It’s darker in there than it is outside my window, the night more inviting than anything; out there is my beautiful Oregon green and big and charmingly sleepy, the air tinged with the smell of wet Earth and the rain that is always five minutes away — or five minutes past, whichever way you wish to look at it.) I admit it wholeheartedly, mostly if you didn’t know it before by reading this simple blog: I have clinical depression. The angry, sad, paralyzing kind; the kind that appears from nothing and will only go back after pulling me into nothing. That kind that strikes a relative of yours, but never you. The kind you fear. The kind I fear. That kind. And tonight I’m dealing with it in the simplest way possible: two joints, a notebook, and an open bedroom window. I can breathe by this window. I often feel like I can’t breathe anywhere else. Outside the little first-floor bedroom window of my apartment is a small pine tree, discarded packs of cigarettes surrounding the trunk like the remnants of a religious ceremony put on by some lonely band of roaming heathens; when the weather is nice during the spring and summer I get to sit beneath its branches and read in the morning and early afternoon. I live for those happier times. The angry, sad, paralyzing kind; the kind that appears from nothing and will only go back after pulling me into nothing. That kind that strikes a relative of yours, but never you. The kind you fear. The kind I fear. That kind. Tonight my beautiful little tree has a strange blue glow about it, an ornament aglow only a week before Christmas. It glows as if inviting me to come outside and join the rest of the big, dumb world. (But I can’t: my ego is still too large, my depression too unique and special for anyone else to truly understand. I can’t, I can’t, I will tell myself in the wee small hours of the morning, the prospect of a new day ahead, the air chilled before the rising of a new (and still same old) Sun. But the evening is still young and I am just one more writer cast in a shadow, trying to escape the misery of “what’s next? What is next, what is next, what is NEXT?”

nemo williams.