Chapter #1 The Lost

The Wanderers. The Wandering. The Lost. What have you. The people who surround themselves with "friends"; hordes of people who care nothing for them but what they can provide them with. Money, drugs, booze, sex - or even just a party pad. The people who sit amid the chaos, have their good times but are slowly and surely become alone. First one will move on and then another. A pair here a trio there - and soon they find themselves sitting in a living room of disappearing furniture staring at snowy channels in a living room watching a black and white TV sitting on a box in the corner. No one comes by anymore; and if they do it's just to try and find out where they can score. No one comes by just to come by anymore. They sit there on a cat-scratched couch, stuffing sprouting from the seams, shoes that have seen better days propped up on a splintering wooden crate, staring at the screen and holding a steady job just to have enough honest money to numb themselves out enough to where they don't really care. To where it doesn't hurt anymore. To where their past and what's become of their present doesn't stab razor blades of guilt, uncertainty and fear through their being... even if just for a little while.

Blistering Sex

Poof, Be-Gone
Another one up in smoke
Another life, Another one
Another chance to make a scene
(For that's all any of us can really accomplish create our own scene our own mark in memory and against time)
Saturday night
The arecade lights all burn so bright
Your friends all say
Just take another hit
And fly away
Watch it spiral down the drain
Funny how it grins
All the way down
"At least I'm enjoying
My death" it seems to say
And I shrug it off
And I try to turn
Knowing there is nothing
That can be done
That I can do
It's all left up to
The only person who won't help
That spiraling smile itself
Another night of blistering sex
That you'll never remember
What good does that do you?
Push something you think
You care about away
Just to slip into the back room
And get high
Leave her alone in the dark
Scared as Hell
'Cause you've got
Your priorities straight
Me, Then me Then me, then you
A little white dust And a little glass
Goes a long way, doesn't it?
A long way down
That's three times harder
Too climb back up
So why bother?
Let's forget another night
And watch you rot away
Before my eyes

The people who have so much life ahead of them; all of their life ahead of them; but can see nothing but a cement barrier at the end of their short, dirty path. The ones who love but block any incoming emotion just in case. The ones who long for a closeness that they won't allow. The ones boiling on the inside, confused and frustrated with the inner turmoil and even more confused and frustrated at not understanding why its there, causing the heat to rise even more. They try and connect to friends without making a real bond in the hopes of having some kind of connection without the emotional risk factor. They pilfer first knick-knacks, then change, then cigarettes - if for no other reason than to feel even an empty sense of vindication towards the captors and the misunderstandings and the lacks of interest. Under the pretense of "walking", finding a secluded spot to sit in the pine needles under a tree, knees drawn up close, to smoke a cigarette; drawing in both the spite of the action itself and embracing the warmth, the tingling and mind-numbing effects of the nicotine. A temporary escape from the dead end of their life that they don't know how to change and are too tired to try. They wish within their deepest being that all the noise would just subside, that the busy chaos would fade away into the shadows and they could just be left alone, in peace. In silence. In quiet. In calm. Having lost hope so long ago and yet always knowing that these things; silence, peace and serenity by way of the anti-existence of all else; would finally soothe their soul.

The people who love too much. Who are told day after day that they never feel, that they never exude emotion, but have filled their being with so much that it brims over and bleeds into obscene drawings, flowing words scribbled across page after page, beautiful but useless work of the hands and finally tears induced only by an outside source. Words like "you never seem like you care", "we're scared of what you might do" and overheard phrases like "I'd like you to stay away from her, she's not a very good person" ringing like incessant church bells inside their head. Gonging over and over and over and over... they start to see things that shouldn't be seen and memories best forgotten flash back to them in vivid detail. Voices and sounds echo around them and fantasy and reality begin to blur. They begin to eat pills like candy finding, not solace, in their dreams, but at least not having to worry about the line between the real and the unfortunate. In sleep there are no rules, their are no truths and there are no lies. There are simply levels of which one can drift from one to another, sometimes sinking to a level so deep they almost don't bother the fight to rise. When people start to talk they move on to other methods like drinking to purposely blur the lines of reality so that the oddities of their mind no longer matter. Then they find methods of pain; the ebb and flow of endorphins and adrenaline seeming to filter some of the vividly haziness of reality. First deep scratches into the skin, temporary marks that need not be explained. Then blades, a calming sense ensuing between the act, the pain and the bitter iron taste of blood. These can only be explained for so long. Recognizing the release of the invisible force pressing down on their mind that the pain gives, they progress to what they find to be the most relieving of all as well as the most morbidly erotic forms of self-inflicted pain. Burning. Starting with hot wax tingling on their hands or poured down their chest and then progressing to the direct application of the coals of incense sticks pressed to the skin. The most unbearable of pains... but embraced with an inexplicable hunger. Hidden by long sleeves and healing scabs explained away as some kind of allergic reaction or rash until they no longer care if their lies are accepted as truth as long as no direct approach is made. A soul who will forever be wandering, forever finding a place for themselves. This may be the most lost of all.