Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

You

Kyle,

Your acquaintance has led to two years of alternating joyous camaraderie that evolved into a good friendship and vicious arguments resulting in a painful separation, often months at a time. Spare me the woes of your past and the turbulence of your present to reach a state of mindfulness with you again.

"Depression lives in the Past and Anxiety in the Future," as an unknown source wrote. Such is the wisdom I enjoy sharing with you today.

Can you breathe my pain when the laughter stops and the negative cycle of your mental disorder re-surfaces in the room? The moment your second personality appears there is no option but to abandon all empathy, and your presence. 

No future can be forged without a will, so amidst the darkest of all fantasies, mine is to know you better. After every verbal battle, we shall conquer the desire to engage in full-body combat again.

I sincerely hope to find a resolution to arguments brought on by our contrasting personalities to support and console each other, to find our peace within and enjoy our differences. This continues to be my wish.

Always your friend,

Lucius

Text: © Orlando Barahona
Image 1: © Jeremy Brooks
Image 2: © LCassi LJ/Flickr

 This work by  Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 

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Exquisite Ghost

I have one. Quite sure you do as well. How I have feared this day would come... As I am near death, my entire life and all its pain and regrets come flooding from my exquisite ghost, my past and my present.

The vivid nightmares won't stop! My usual dreams somehow transport me to places and situations in which I haven't been, because of the long life I've led, creatively and negatively; joyful and sad; depressed and manic. Make them stop, my accosted Spirit, my troubled exquisite ghost.

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Sean MacEntee/Flickr

 This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 

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Marcus

To watch him fall in love was to watch a sky at dawn after a melancholy spell. He followed a dream made conspicuously clear in his eyes, sparkling on a face revealing the relentless pursuit of riches and pleasure, perhaps of someone new.

When he received compliments from others he was unable to use his own voice to claim possession of the feelings in his heart that paralleled the Universe in its enormous and infinite motion, to thank them for their aether flowers. Such contrasts between lucid intent in body language and charming vestigial shyness built an attraction that could shake any statue. 

So sweetly has he given me in a few key notes of his keyboard the tears I needed to bring down a house of fear. Where shall he drift to now? I’m longing for our union of touch and sound, standing, waiting by the phone. The recording of the sentiment seems trite and soulless in the hot wax of words because it is spoken through the eyes and the lips; the hands and the arms; the unmovable, bittersweet faith of tender longing borne on my lips waiting for a kiss of hope. 

But he did not wish to be better, to overcome his disorder, the spiritual myopia of Depression. He saw destruction as a conduit for a better life, contemplating it every minute of his inclement emotional weather. Death becomes flowers in the spring. Today, I remember his life and display the writing on my skin worn by guilty happiness the acridest sorrow of them all: that moment when I stopped being him.

Father Time, take me away to another place in my mind. My trunks are full, the vision is bright and the road is still unknown.



© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Chris Geatch/Flickr


 This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 

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