The Failing Truth

What have I become? I find myself on the end of a spectrum that seems to grow more painfully obvious with every great debate or argument of my existence. This is a road that I’m strangely familiar with, the scenery too repetitive to not know where I am. I am at the place I started.
It’s weird to see years go by, to lose hair and gain it, to see myself in the mirror and find someone else staring back…an older me, a me that I didn’t imagine I’d ever be. We are what we accomplish, what we’ve done and where we’ve landed, and the footprints are too close together. There’s something wrong when the sum of a man is easier to produce through the accomplishments never achieved. When the world is blaring at a level so overwhelming that screams are muffled beneath it, because I’ve become the background noise, not even the star of my own personal Truman show.
I’ll admit it, I feel defeated. A plan not finished, a dream gone sour, a vision unfulfilled. After absorbing so many different stories, reading and watching the things that have become mainstream, verifying what the world wants and measuring it to the flooding thoughts and ideas that feel so abundant, I shudder at the idea that my thoughts are not good enough–like a sea of lost potential lapping at the edges of my consciousness begging to be made whole, to exist in more than just electrical synapses huddled in the far reaches of my mind. It wants to be poured out, these things need to slip loose from inside, like anything in this life when words are held in they only poison the holder.
I almost wish I could raise a kickstarter for my life, help me find my sanity, help a writer become what he claims to be…just pennies a day and you can give a Santi his dream back. It’s not too much of a stretch, I know stress can do funny things, maybe these ideas have finally hit their capacity. Maybe my head and heart have found a way to push me, that if I don’t pour some words on a page directly from my heart I’ll poison myself with their authenticity. It did feel good to type these words. Maybe after I work tomorrow I’ll find that line again, and something more than a rant will spill free.


Matchbox: part II

Part 2

Ben was lost. His heart beating so furiously that his ears were filled with the pulsing sound of their cadence. He twisted back and forth, looking for a sign, a light in the void. Somewhere in the brush creatures clicked and rattled about sending the already nervous Benjamin into a wild frenzy of panicked turns.

“Which way’s home?” Ben stuttered between gasps of air. He nearly jumped out of his skin, as an owl skimmed the top of his head, it was enough to send him running again. Ben understood that taking time to figure out where he was would help him get home, that thought didn’t seem to break his stride. The sounds of the forest were following at his heels, chasing him farther into the darkness.

Ben ran till his legs nearly buckled under him. His mouth and throat dry, teeth chattering as his nerves settled. Who was the man on the tracks? That crazy old man seemed vaguely familiar to Ben. Ben crumpled, falling backwards onto a patch of high grass, resting for a moment, trying to slow his heart rate. Then the moment before the old man died, the things he shouted, the old man called Ben by his name—did the old man know him. It only took a few minutes of peace for Ben to notice what was clenched in the palm of his left hand.

In his head he had wanted to drop it, leave everything behind. But here it sat, and in some deep corner of his head he wondered if this thing was alive, that Ben had let go and the matchbox had held on. Suddenly a series of wind chimes sounded, caught in the building wind of a coming storm, it was not too far from where he sat. Ben sighed in relief, it must be his home over the hill. Ben’s mother had an addiction to wind chimes, hanging them all along the porch, even inside the house. Although the ones inside never caught wind.

Ben jumped up, renewed vigor for the hope of sleeping away the memories of the day. Of making this dark night disappear, erasing it away with warm sheets and soft pillows that were waiting just over the hill. Only one thing left to leave it all behind. Ben took one last look, then he hurled the small box into the woods behind him. “Good riddance,” his words were followed by a sharp noise, a humming screech that filled his right ear. Ben rubbed his ear, smacked it a few times, but nothing changed. Not that it mattered, he’d rush home and forget this ever happened.

He was almost home when his right eye began twitching, a drop of blood slipping off the side of his eyelid. Ben touched his face and then looked to his hand. Scarlet freckles of light glimmered within his palm. Wasting no time he pulled his shirt off and wiped himself down, feeling the old man’s blood smearing and sticking to his face and neck. It wasn’t working. Not to mention the incessant screeching sound was now burning in his eardrum.

A light turned on inside of his home, Ben ducked and then realized that he was standing in the middle of the backyard, making that motion seem pointless to Ben. So as quietly as he could he ran to the back of the house then waited. When the light turned off he blindly searched for the hose, once he found it he began spraying himself down, and then he squeezed his clothes dry.

His window was just slightly ajar, enough to spot the difference in the dark. He pulled himself through and stumbled his way to his bed the stinging sound that was unbearable outside started to soften and slowly dissipate, he became instantly relieved, mindlessly he threw the wet clothes towards the hamper. Freezing as the wet smack filled the once silent room. Ben held his breath, listening for any sound of his father roaming the halls out for blood. Once satisfied that he would be sleeping free of any beatings tonight, or punishments for sneaking out he fell to his bed.

His head connected with his pillow face down. Ben then bounced to his side, flailing he gripped his right eye and commenced a string of curses as softly as he could without diminishing his rage. Reaching for his light he fell off the bed, again he suppressed his urge to howl in anger. Ben shot up and reached blindly towards his pillow. Something small, his fingers collapsed around the object, familiar in sensation—mostly because of the engraved letters over it’s surface.

Ben turned on his light, then he tried to catch his breath. His heart pounding viciously, fear and adrenaline pushing his body to its breaking points. It was impossible, he did throw it, or he thought he threw it. This thing made him feel crazy. There was only one conceivable way to make all the questions go away.

Ben held the edges firmly, his thumb pressed the center. The box slid free and landed into his waiting hand. Ben’s attention was pulled away, the sound of the wind chimes in the living room began to ring, suddenly filling the dead home with life. Ben returned his attention, he looked into the box. It appeared empty. But the weight didn’t change, it was still heavy. Maybe there was something in there and it was too dark in his room to see it. He moved closer to the light bulb and rested his hand under the light, taking a better look at it. It wasn’t empty, what Ben had interpreted as an empty box originally, was the blackness. It was nearly overflowing with the black. No form or shadow, no lines or light inside, what he stared at inside the box was pure dark. The way the night sky seemed to have an emptiness that stretched so far no living thing could ever reach it, that was what Ben stared at. It made his insides twist, Ben felt ill just looking at it. Ben tilted the box, trying to expose the edges, to give him an idea of why the light seemed to never hit the inside of the matchbox. Nothing changed.

Ben knew this was outside of his understanding, over anything he could begin to fathom or would ever experience, should he lived hundreds of years over. Ben swallowed nervously. His fingers dangling over this chasm of existence, this tiny little mistake of the universe. Before he knew what his body was doing, he watched his fingers drifting down, falling into the inside of this little matchbox.

Ben wondered if he was screaming or imagining it, since this moment and sensation could only exist in a dream. That everything he was experiencing was an impossibility. That surreal moment, it was the feeling that he got when he would dream that he was falling. But with another experience simultaneously.

One time he had broken his arm, jumping blindly as a child, this was worse than that. He felt himself crushed, ever inch, ever piece and fiber of his flesh, it was pressed into nothingness and then twisted forward towards the center of the box into oblivion. He was now sure that he was screaming, he was also praying, and crying, and most of all he was waiting to wake up as he slipped farther into the darkness.



Hello everyone, welcome to this very tiny spot in the ever growing tapestry that is our internet.  I am G.S. Santi and maybe one day that name will carry some sort of impact, for now a raised eyebrow and a shrug are expected and accepted without a frown.  I am hoping to become a writer, and by hoping I mean, I write and feel it wrong of me to claim the title without a proper published book or at least a few published items in magazines.  Now yes it is absolutely true that within this site alone there are a magnitude of people wide eyed and with callous fingertips punching away with delight, so what separates me from the masses…damn, that’s a really good question, I honestly wasn’t prepared for any questions.

I suppose words are just words, but through my actions I hope to prove I can write, that I am what I hope to be.  I believe everyone has a place, a talent, and a purpose on this planet.  For some they might see nothing, but to someone it’s a gift and what’s a gift if not shared or given?

G.S. Santi