2:15AM. I got myself out of bed. I didn’t want to die. Was already. I’d put on these clothes to cover my skeleton. Bones covering a whole lot of nothing. And I’d bike to work. Each pedal. Each half a kilometre. I exhaled my skeleton. Into the void. I’d throw it up, right out my chest. Little bones of me battering my heart. Breaking my esophagus. Laughing at the hole that already existed. Where my voicebox should have been. I should’ve been able to cry out.

Those nights, I cleaned toilets. I cleaned a Target. I pushed a floor scrubber through the store and stared out the windows. Tranquility of nothingness. I was at home. But the streetlights. The way they illuminated. Little pieces of concrete. Spaces of the world. They haunted me. Nullity outside of them. A flurry of life within. I became afraid of the darkness in my heart.

Welcome to the inner workings of my mind.
Hurricane.

I was Discord.Being. I invented him. I invented me. Because I was afraid the words were slicing me. All the things I never spoke. All I was. Dehumanized, I was. By all my friends. My family, dead. Long time ago. My friends, I built around me. Brothers and sisters shielding me from the hurricane. Maybe I never told them how much they meant to me. How much I needed them. I thought it was obvious. It wasn’t. And when I received my death diagnosis–cancer, the first time–I looked to them. But they were running down the road. Dancing waltzes in their mind. Whirling fucking dervishes in their own serenity. Pushing me. Sweeping me. Away. I was alone and there was no one to guide me to the eye of the hurricane. They ran, for all the reasons we’ve dissected. I survived, but I died anyways. Losing my family twice. Being double shot through the heart.

Keep my eyes open
My lips sealed
My heart closed
And my eyes peeled

So Discord.Being, I was. I felt like a machine. The death spirit that danced. I didn’t want to be a symbol of other people’s failures. I’d just survived hell. I’d crawled my way back into the light. Only to find when I got there people stomping on my hands. Go. Go. Go. Go. The fuck away.

And I started to music blog. So I could vocalize, the sounds that lived within me. So I could paint pictures of myself. Not leave bits of my tibia, my metatarsals on Grand Avenue. Every time I needed to scream. Music. Blogging. Fragments of me in 530 words. That’s how I wanted to leave pieces of me for the world to see. It became the only way I spoke. Still is. Most days, I forget to speak. I wander through my life, darting between streetlamps. These blogs, my flurry of life within. Healed more now than ever. But I’ll always be the discord in your being. I still drag myself to the eye of the hurricane with these songs.

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