• Travis Ryan


Vibrating is what my brain stem did nervously against the base of my skull and the base of my spine, leading the apocalyptic horse of certain doom to a pond made of my own stagnate fears, and making it drink long and deep. Recharged for a long ride across my soul, hoof beats, heart prints, and this fucking vibrating.

Buzzing is the sound produced from the process of every blood cell in my body, red, white, or blue, taking turns in a huge procession running against the sore spot in my heart. A procession of mourning sots, not touching the spot out of respect, just out of routine and superstition.

Touching the spot where love entered in a neat hole, tumbled, and exploded out the other side, exit wounds are nasty, but still heal. The line moved forward and each member of the circulatory bigger picture touched these spots, remembering and silently prayer that they hope it doesn’t happen again.

They had lost a lot of comrades in that last period in Time, dumped aimlessly into the great beyond or drowned and poisoned chemical potions. They all knew they could, but not a soul wanted to handle another round of war called “Love”, so the buzzing continued, billions of optimistic cells showing what’s left of their respect to the wreckage of a time past, or a time to come.

Acceleration, as if moving 2000 feet per second out of a cannon is how my nerves feel watching the flashes of muted white light, when I see you, those miles of neurons and electricity light up like thermite. “Butterflies” comes about as close as describing Hiroshima as firecrackers. The ultra bright Christmas lights just below the skin, that turn into a blinking sign proclaiming “THIS ONE STUPID”, are there to show the way. The problem with road maps is, the clearer and more precise they are, the harder it is to trust being an adversary of advice, and knowing sometimes the animals with the sharpest knives are hiding right behind such advice, eagerly awaiting the naive and trusting to cut down.

These sounds of background noise, the buzzing, vibrating, and feelings of hurtling towards something are not the norm. They are not an “everyday struggle” and they are not as they seem. I could not have been trying harder to break these noises down into individual waves and fragments to view them under my rusty and scratched microscope. to process and reveal and put into perspective, until that exact point that it hit me. Laying in bed at 3am....

Alot of interesting stories begin this way, but this is so obvious, that a story about late night masturbation with dry hands would be more thrilling.

Laying in bed at 3am I realized, that I had been trying to fit these beautiful, amorphous chunks of anti-substance That no one understands, forcefully, into the square holes that I was provided to “manage” my emotions. Everything doesn’t have an answer, or a purpose, and even a wounded little kid version of myself knows that only square answers fit neatly into square thoughts.

The language I was trying to decipher this experience into was not a language of life or living. But rather terms to stand on the side and add judgment and analyses to those beautiful beings who have no need for meaning, or analyses who thrive and grown on the black and white. that contrast is this;

“is this happening, or is it not?”.

That is the end all, be all glass of perplexity in problem solving. Nothing based in abstract theology applies to this example, and really any other issue. Good, bad, right, wrong, hot, cold, up, down. Are not words of life, they are absolutes for hindsight or foreshadowing in a way that skips over emotion and forgo all that is “human”.

The only thing that matters currently are these;

“Is this happening?”


“Are these feelings real?”


“ can I handle this?”


..... The rest is just a game of I spy, and not being afraid to look for road signs.

It’s like I’m trying to stand outside and control lightning bolts, regardless of what I do, it will still happen. No matter how genuine my efforts, the only variable that they will change is, if I‘m going to get torched into a pile of ash, or not. I’d rather stay indoors and enjoy my hands being free and relaxed, no longer grasping for the cosmic controls.

Love is as easy as I let it be, I can try to control this unstoppable force capable of giving or taking life. Or I can ask the questions that are permeating out of my pores from my soul.

I will sit back, warm and dry as a bone, while I listen patiently for the answers, sit back and enjoy the ride.

“Some kind of prophet”, “Lovestruck Lunatic”

Travis James Ryan


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