The Moments in Between: A Novel

By Anthony M. Pesola

This book was originally a blog/diary. I decided to bring it together as a story (not quite exactly my story, but bits and pieces of it) so other people living with these emotions of obsession and devotion, obliteration, etc. can know they are not alone. Very few people know how to deal with these feelings, especially if they are feeling them for the first time. This story was definitely my first time feeling this, and I was definitely lost. I poured my heart out into this book, and wrote most of it while I was having these emotions, not out of memory. They are very raw, pure, and I did my best not to censor my thoughts so the reader can feel the pureness of the mind. I definitely exaggerated, but only where I felt necessary. Nothing is exact. Characters may or may not have actually existed, and may have been invented to provide for the plot. All of this situations in this book, even though they may be based on real life events, are entirely fictional. Any and all emotions may have been exaggerated. The obsessive feelings and thoughts have definitely been exaggerated for the drama and tension of the book. This book does not contain advice. It is merely an experience. Something I feel everyone should go through that no one deserves. Its a whole other kind of pain from physical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503539945

Anthony M. Pesola

I originally started writing as a method of self help. I have a tendency to be quite the emotional person and writing is an incredibly powerful outlet. When I finally trusted someone to read some of the things I've written, they told me I had a fantastic way with words, so I started taking things more seriously. My journals evolved into a personal blog which I plan on turning into a couple unique short stories/short novels. I spend a lot of my free time from work and regular struggle in books and with a pen and with my guitar. I have made it very far with my emotional stability with these forces at hand and am incredibly thrilled to show people they're not alone. My book and hopefully future books hope show people they aren't the only ones who think with such power. They don't have to be scared to open up to people and face consequences because eventually we all do make it with the right amount of effort. You just can't stop trying. It's okay to cry and cry to the people who make it clear they want to be in your life. Trust me. I break down all the time, but I won't give up. Words are how we compose our universe. And it's fascinating. I am a person who believes words are everything. It is what our entire existence is composed of. Language, and only our emotions escape the boundaries of that. It's what fascinates me about these feelings. There are literally indescribable things out there. Where the whole physical universe can be given characters, there are feelings. Jumbles of information which cannot be described. All we can do is hide it under one vague term: love.

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Copyright © 2015 by Anthony M. Pesola.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/04/2015

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CONTENTS

Five minutes and seventeen seconds

Mirrors

Fated to pretend

Any other night

Waking up

Table monk

Nights with no beginnings

The tea stain

Semi charmed life/Story of a lonely guy

The Oedison bridge

I wasn’t okay

The Purpose of Music

Conflicted interest

The day she left

Coming to/Relapse

Not so new girl/Felicity Belle

The art of making sense

A going away party I wont forget/The seed

How it passes

Going down

At the riverwalk: BIN 221/Reveal

That name/Poor obsession

Stole my pillow, and my heart

As my mind won’t let go of you

Pumpkin carving

Is it horribly humbling?

A purpose unexpected

Stuck in the Dark/Obsessions

I care

It was today

This can’t be how it ends

Not entirely unlike art

I’m nothing special, apparently

The note and the reason

And maybe someday

Affinity for my ambivalence

The voice inside my head

Inspiring Quotes

Inspiring Music

To Dagmara Boczarska

For My Readers

When you lose the one it doesn’t ever really get better. And you never really learn to live with it. You never cope with the pain. The name.

You lose a part of yourself to that person. You never get it back. It doesn’t get better.

Why wouldn’t she just give me a chance?

Give people a chance. There’s enough heartbreak, and you don’t know what you’ll be missing when someone truly cares about you. You could miss out on the journey of a lifetime.

And time is easy to waste, so fill those holes with creativity.

If you’re going to let the thoughts fester, build something out of them.

Become one with them.

It is true: life goes on. But, it’s even more true that life is never quite the same afterwards.

It doesn’t get better than the first, completely unfiltered experience.

Thank you

To Dagmara Boczarska

Never have I had anyone in my life like you

Who has woken me up in so many ways

Taken so much interest in my person

And let me develop my interest in them

And I want to thank you

Each and every day

Even if our only exchange of words is goodnight

Because you deserve, in every moment, to know

How absolutely beautiful you are

How outstanding, fantastic, amazing

In a million little ways and I’m still discovering more

I can barely contain my love for you

I wish with all my being

To have just a little more time with you everyday

You inspire me, and drive me

Conditioning me to be my best for you

And in the few moments I get to look into those eyes

I fall in love each time all over again

Gazing into that rich and working soul

As if the first night we decided to take that chance

And oh how much I will beg

To be with that soul until I take my final breath

I will work for it tirelessly

And give you everything I can to try and deserve it

I will be there for you

Oh so badly it hurts to lie awake at night

Knowing you’re not by my side

The people we build our world with, in the end

Who care for us and love us and work for us

Are going to be the only things of any worth

And I love you more than words can describe

Thank you

For letting me become lost in your eyes

I love you hb

Five minutes and seventeen seconds

Every once in a very long while everything goes quite exactly as planned. This is not that story nor directly concerning the story’s beginning, but the fact is worth mentioning. We’ll come back to this later.

This is, by completely ordinary and convenient circumstances, a story that began in a room.

Coincidentally, the room is not one which quite exactly existed to please the senses, but none the less made the living space of a completely unimportant person of his time. Regardless of his unimportance, this person is directly involved in the events of the coming story and is therefore somewhat but not too important. Anyway, the room:

It existed not so remarkably atop a ballet studio, which itself existed on top of a dentist. Just below that was a tiny convenience shop which went by the name ‘Goods’ in nice squiggly glowing letters just above the advertisement filled windows, on top of which was two smaller shops, a psychic names Estelle and psychologist named Dr. Yvoller Langsworth separated by a thin hall and steep stairwell.

The room was one of four studios at fifth level, none of which had their own bathroom, none the less an individual toilet or a kitchen. All of that was just around the staircase which led to this floor from the back of the building. The people who lived in this building took great attention to getting to know each other very well, as they also shared a front room with a lookout toward the featureless neon littered buildings across the street.

All the more unfortunate, to achieve the staircase in the back one must enter the building from the front’s second door, past the main airlock, up the stairs, through the narrow hall, up a stairwell in the back, through the thin hall down the third floor of the building listing the four rooms of the dental office, and up another reach of stairs which contained a platform at the center for the ballet studio door (this space twice a week was heavily trafficked with little girls who attended ballet classes which the residents began to know rather well), while the entire way along is blocked by frequent doors most of which are inconveniently and unnecessarily weather locked. And the mail boxes were all outside along the left side of the building. The garbage bins were out back.

The room was the second smallest of its floor, just enough space to provide a single, unorganized person’s living.

It masterfully secluded itself within a layer of textured blue paint, done not so much poorly as deliberately over century old drywall. This meshed rather lazily along the off white wall length curtain which hung loosely in attempt to somewhat hide the poorly build window frame cracked from the decades of bland weather, but mostly to keep the cold outside. The front door of the studio rested exactly at the far corner of the room and hung crooked, leaving a large space at the bottom to which conversations seemed to be attracted. Among the fairly simplistic design of the room, a last minute cutout opposite the door made way for a large closet; a professional addition that, in its most gracious of uses, appeared wretched and malformed.

Unobstructed, the farthest one could walk in this room is five and a half meters or so. Just far enough for pacing back and forth, a common practice of the room’s owner.

If any could find enough glum disposition in life to sit just beyond the room’s closet, them few who didn’t suffer instant mind numbing boredom find a clear view of most of the entire room. This is not widely practiced. Mind the warning.

With the same hazard, one must realize that from this seat the left bottom corner of the room is not visible. This is due to a demure mattress of the cleverly inexpensive yet remarkably comfortable kind. A long lumpy patterned piece of furniture looming in a dusty haze, partially covered in a dull blue sheet which sat poorly folded on top of a better folded off white colored blanket designed of coarse wools and a lace seam. On the more used half of this luxury posed a crooked and naked chalk white pillow with a small tear in its weathering center. An object with only a tad bit more use to the novel, partly because there is an adorable cat on it (a cat named Blue in a tight cuddle with her own hind legs), but mostly because it has a tea stain from a very wonderful party which was very much enjoyed even after the tea spilled there. This party will not be further mentioned directly, but events within the party have affected relationships which will be demonstrated further in the book.

The room’s musty yellow hue which suspiciously shrouded a majority of the larger cobwebs originated from the poor choice of a