SOLEMN MOUNTAINTOP

These were written after I climbed my favorite mountain on O'ahu by myself just earlier this year. I brought water, a pad of paper, and a pen. These are a few of the many excerpts I wrote that day, atop that beautiful mountain. It's fascinating to see how my perception of the world—hell, of life—has evolved to be so different now. I'm entirely grateful today that it has.

We’re all so scared of the mud, but why? We’re filthier. 

The whole way up I wished you were here

so you could dance on the ledges

and I could watch

Leaving everything should have drawn me to you. But the keys feel like needles every time I press them. The ideas don’t melt into words as effortlessly anymore. I’ve become so private, I can’t even type. But I’ve missed you. I’m back.

Don’t make me go back down.

Everything is up here,

every thing is down there.

Don’t make me go back down.

Because, when you’re alone you are forced to see yourself. There’s no one else to redirect your own personal dissatisfaction. We use other people as storage units. Storage units filled with our own garbage. Maybe we’ll never accept it, but it’s hard not to see it when you’re alone on the sofa.

Where have my fingernails gone? 

Down the drain

down my throat

down the road

out the window

off my hand

plucking the strings

inside my chest.

A man and his dog just came along. I’ll let them pass to create some time—some space. I wonder if they can see me over here. They probably think they’re alone too.

But, this is my favorite pen.

So,

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

Please rain.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

Then I can bury it here. 

Please rain,

please clouds,

let go.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

I’m going to write till it’s dead.

God damn it, please die.

Clouds, please, ink, please,

let go.

My brother always says he wants to die surfing—to "go" in the water. See, I just don’t like the ocean that much. But, up here, at a high elevation, writing you. It’s true—I wouldn't mind going here someday.

Will I be in the bathroom

re-doing my hair over and over

perfecting the blush on my cheeks,

spacing my lashes evenly,

and re-doing my hair again

for the rest of my life?

Get out of the bathroom.

Stop getting ready,

be ready.

I was asked what it’s like to

run from the storm

I couldn’t answer

I’ve always ever sprinted

towards it

I try to picture my name on a book sitting on a shelf at the bookstore. It’s not so clear, the vision. Maybe I won’t put my name on it.

My white socks are brown now,

and, to be honest, I can’t tell where

the sky meets the sea, and I’ve

never felt so fortunate.