It seems like forever since I’ve had a good night’s
sleep. I stay up at all hours of the night alone and read book after book after
book. My tears well up and I am crying as I read about war. I miss being a
warrior. I read books about Vietnam and think, “I didn’t have it so bad.” And
deep down I wish I did. It all seems so far away and yet it’s all I can think
about.
I can’t be around people. There’s nothing in common.
They don’t like me, it’s plain to see, why are they even pretending. I see
pretty girls and see openings to talk to them. I don’t. It’s not that I’m
scared, I just don’t care. I know nothing will happen. I don’t want to invest
the time. I’d rather be alone.
Alone and I miss people. But there are no people. I
talked to Hunter today, he sounds happy again and I’m glad. He had another baby
girl. We laughed as he talked about ‘Hell House’. He wants to go back to Iraq
one day. Tourist visit, we’ll sleep in the IRAM holes. I do too.
Crushing solititude. I didn’t leave the apartment
all day today. Besides the phone call with Hunter I didn’t utter a single word.
I thought about how easy this was.
I sent Facebook messages to one hundred and
fifty people I grew up with. I went to school with these people. Along the way
I picked up and lost friends, not too many with bad feelings. Mostly we drifted
away and life moved on. Schoolboy crushes, smoking partners, acquaintences, legends,
nerds, jocks, people I sat next to in elementary school, people who attended my
parties in high school. I sent out one hundred and fifty messages. I asked how
they were, I asked them to check out the book. One hundred and fifty, maybe
twenty responded.
They said, congratulations. They said they’d check
it out. They said they’d buy it. Why do people say things they’re not going to
do? At least that twenty didn’t ignore me. One hundred and fifty people, not
one new reader. Not one.
I have too much faith in people, somehow this surprised
me. It shouldn’t have. I’ll see many of these people in the next few years.
Home is a small place indeed. The guys will probably shake or slap my hand,
some of the girls may hug me. I should refuse, but I won’t. I’ll smile and nod
my head and say it was great to see you.
Terrible and crushing loneliness. I’ve given up
smoking and embraced reality again. It’s hard to deal with the existential
pain, but I know it’s good for me. I go to school and get inspired and speak
out and stutter and then I am ashamed. Even when I don’t stutter the others
make me shamed at enthusiasm, at passion, and knowledge. I’m a good student this
semester. Nothing but time.
I remember not being able to sleep at Warhorse, at
KBS, in Baghdad. This was a reflective sleeplessness, an exuberance, an energy.
I embraced the loneliness then, only rarely was it painful. I had too many
brothers around. Too many, now there are none.
Holding here in Hawaii. I’m sick of being a haole
and seeing the hate in people’s eyes. I’ve done nothing to offend them. They hate
because I’m big and strong and confident and bright. So much hating because of
this. Hatred because I’m awake. Hatred because I cannot sleep.
And itching. Residual itching from the bed bugs from
New Orleans. The worst part is, I don’t know if they’ll be waiting for me back
home. Maybe they’re here. So much to do and yet nothing to do.
Five years as a warrior. Two years in the desert
wasteland. One year in my writer’s cave. Two months on the road. Now all the
energy is gone. Idealism is dead and I confront failure. You didn’t send me
letters in Iraq. You didn’t buy a drink when I made it home. I bought the
drinks. I sent out the letters. I read alone. I read about war and about
warriors and I am crying.
Sober sleepness nights. And I dream of war.
