This piece felt relevant today. Reposting this fragment.

I suppose that is what breaks my heart: that we’re really all alive

until we’re forgotten, 

and everyone is forgotten eventually. 

The exception to that rule is what we leave behind,

rather than who we leave behind. 

We are immortalized in art. In physical things, 

in paintings and history books and documents that we signed our names on. 

We stay alive in every word we ever wrote and every picture we drew. 

Therefore, even though the population is about 7 billion, 

it is trillions upon trillions of people whose footprints remain in our sands;

we hold centuries in our palms, each day. 

It is these things, the immortal things suddenly made mortal, 

that I will mourn when the world ends.

When I was 15 I used to hang out at this collective called the Pit House. It was probably one of the most interesting points in my life. It was in the slums, so we got away with a lot of chaos for a long time. They would do folk-punk shows there every night. A lot of the time no one would even have instruments. I once saw someone add to the rhythm section by sweeping the ground with a broom aggressively. It was pots and pans bands. On Saturday nights they’d host panty parties. We’d all mosh and skank in our underwear outside or in the basement. I’d leave covered in sweat and sneak into a private beach where I’d pass out until I knew my dad was in bed. There were four bedrooms and 26 people living there. Not to mention the people like me who would pop in whenever they felt like they needed a safe place. Sometimes there was food. Sometimes not. The backyard was fenced in, but there was a cliché fence board that could swing out so the residents could sneak into the neighbor’s yard and steal food off the grill. Most of the time the water was turned off and we would run the neighbor’s garden hose to a kiddie pool in the backyard. The cops were called all of the time. We were loud. We were wild. There were too many people coming and going. At one point during the summer there were two dogs, a squirrel, and 18 cats living in the house. Plus chickens outside. The bathroom and kitchen were constantly covered in feathers and fur and with the lack of running water every surface was filthy. I didn’t eat there even when there was food. I never wore shoes then, and there were animal droppings everywhere. I caught E Coli that summer, and it made sex painful. That was the first time I was raped. It never stopped after that. I spent more time in the safe haven these kids had created, avoiding the rest of my life. Towards the last days of summer the cops were being called on us every day. The landlord finally said no more when some of the guys staged a protest in front of the house to “riot for the right to noise.” They had a week to evacuate. I was there the day they broke all the windows. We spray painted every wall. Three bands played in the living room simultaneously and we moshed through every room. We threw each other into walls in order to break them down. People were crowd surfing to get a better angle to punch the ceilings down. Three girls swung from the ceiling fan to pull it down to the floor. We lit fireworks in the kitchen and bedrooms and fireplace. They set the animals free. They took lighters and spray paint to scorch the walls and floors. And when everyone was worn out and had released their wild, we climbed on the roof to watch the sun set. Some of the guys took turns jumping from the roof to the kiddie pool. We threw the rest of the fireworks from the roof, already lit. They’d explode too close to the ground, and some of them caught in the grass. I left early and slept on the beach. The police came that night and everyone who was left was held over night. They never got the deposit back on the house.

*disclaimer - name of collective has been changed to avoid revealing any participating parties.

I just want to talk,

it’s been a month or so, and I can’t stop.

I gave up two weeks ago when my mind was low,

even under a writer’s block,

I can’t seem to get up and walk

to you, or even crawl for a savior,

I’d say see you later, but I’ve got about 24 hours and I’ll see you in my lair..

You think of me as a stranger, I’m mainly just a lone ranger,

I’ve scouted for months, I’m locked behind my punch-

I see the numbers, but I don’t care to crunch, I don’t need your help, let me run!

It’s okay- inhale:

Is the internet any help?

No!

Have you progressed by the slightest?

Ay!

Leave me alone you little

empathetic prick.

Alright now let it out....

I’ve saved my hate and capped it in a little tin box,

I leave it where my thoughts

aren’t-

constantly talking,

I don’t know you

and You don’t know me,

It’s ok, you don’t have to love me.

Just give me a second to give you some

company,

because I’m tired of running,

I’m tired of falling.