Awake In A Sleeping World

     The definition of a nightmare is an evil spirit sent to strangle a person in their dreams. Well, this is the old definition, one my neoteric mind cannot and will not accept. There is no such thing as a nightmare.
     It all began in the darkness as I shut my sleep laden eyes and surrendered to the milky ebony of night, blacker than the blackest crow. I slipped away, away into a muddled confusion that I would never wake from.
     I stood in a cavern, hollowed and empty like the carcass of a long dead giant whose leathery skin has worn away and life and breath has deserted to leave only the skeletal remains of the beast behind, a sad reminder that that all things must die. The faint trickling of water was all that shattered the endless silence, timidly echoing in the monstrous shell beneath the earth. I shuddered as I took as step forward, a mad cacophony sounding in the gloom from the movement.
     How I knew where to go I am not certain. I could not see but for a crack gaping in the roof of the cavern, permitting sparse moonlight to slip in like a quiet thief and break the complete darkness to reveal the secrets of the great cavern's innards. Jagged stalactites and stalagmites reached out to each other like sharp, vicious fangs, dripping water like the crimson blood of prey in a steady rhythm, never ceasing like the infinite tick of an energetic clock.
     My arm brushed against the cavern wall and sent a cold chill running down the length of my spine like an electric current, igniting every nerve in my body. The rock was slick like glass, its rugged surface worn from ages of damp and dark. I shied away, keeping my arms tucked in tight to my sides, not wanting to feel the alien surface on my skin, an unwelcome reminder of the unknown which surrounded me, encompassed me, consumed me.
     The tenebrous nature of the cavern was altogether unnerving. The features of the earthen hollow were impossible to discern for the blanket of unsettling darkness, an opaque veil of the likes I had never before experienced. It was almost mesmerizing and the fact that I found it so terrified me. The sliver of precious moonlight was fading as I moved forward, further abandoning me in this foreign world, plunging me deeper into a universe of shadows.
     It would seem that I would have been reluctant to go on, revolted, even, by the sheer thought of it, but, on the contrary, I wanted nothing more. I was driven by some primal instinct, some prideful possession that I could not begin to ignore or, worse, deny. I longed to walk in those dark, empty corridors. I craved those damp, hollow spaces and the sounds of water dancing down the walls of weathered rock. I hungered to reach the end of the cavern, to solve the riddle this enigmatic journey. It drove me to madness.
     Each night I shut my eyes and find myself in the cavern. Each night it calls to me, this starving curiosity, and I feed it, but it is never satiated. Instead, it grows with each step, each breath, fogging before my pallid face in the moonlit cavern. I cannot please this violent curiosity because I can never reach the end.
     Whether the cavern is infinite or not I cannot say, nor can I fully understand its true nature. All I know is this cavern of my dreams, of my nightmares, is as real as anything I have ever experienced in the waking world. No, it has become my world. It is my focus. It is my life. Each night I go there and continue the journey and wonder if it will ever end. But, some primitive part of me, some part of my being so fundamentally wild, doesn't ever want to leave this cold, dead cavern.
     The dreams are so tangible, so realistic, that I now question which of my two realities is true. In which do I exist? I am troubled as this old world fades and the world of the cavern becomes my new existence, but part of me is delighted. This part of me which horrifies me so is filled with joy. It leaves me haunted, empty as the cavern itself. I cannot understand. Am I awake in a sleeping world, or am I the one who's dreaming?

A Run

     The brittle leaves crunched beneath my pounding feet, each stride delivering a symphony of the forest. I ran through the trees, puffs of dirt flying up from my heels like clouds without rain. The scent of fall stripped my senses raw, leaving bare the earthy aroma of pine needles and sticky sap running down the rugged trunks of ancient trees and flimsy saplings, bent and drooping like a flower that is tired and wilting. 

     And I ran. 

     Icy wind ripped around my shoulders and whipped my hair back away from my face. Tears streamed from my eyes in an endless flow of self pity mingling with the twinges of guilt. And still I ran. I ran faster, harder than before, begging for speed. The world crashed into me. A menacing root jutted from the ground angrily where my feet had betrayed me. Bright crimson ran down my knees, canvases meant to remain blank, unpainted. I ignored the ache from the fall and began to run again, shaky at first but determined. 

     And I ran. 

     I ran across the dying grasses and the withering weeds. I ran across the dirt caked pebbles and over rock strewn trails. I ran through streams where water trickled in hazy, lazy paths and through rushing torrents, beating against my legs. I ran to the precipice of mountains and over rolling hills, across stark landscapes barren of life and through forests packed with jagged thorns. I knew I would fall again, but I also knew I would get up. I lifted my face to the brilliant sun.

     And I ran.

On the Duality of Man and Funny Things

      It is at once both sad and curious that I should find aspects of reality and the imagination that are dark, depressing, and the occasionally grotesque far easier to describe than those that are cheerful, beautiful, and inspiring. What is even more haunting of a thought is that I find more enjoyment in the former than latter. To me, writing is an art, a delicate art, most subtle and incredibly subjective in nature. I find that crafting words is but another way of painting or sculpting, but I sculpt the mind and not the physical world. It seems, after saying this, all together disturbing that I could gain such satisfaction in the act of painting or sculpting something so hideous, disturbing, or heart wrenching, and that the creation of such mental images, the very construction of words to build such thoughts, flows easily from the depths of my innermost conscience, unimpeded by shock at my own mind.
     But is my mind solely at fault? Is it my mind that is to blame, or something larger entirely, influencing my art? Is our society not the reason for this blissful madness? Each morning we wake up, we turn on the news, the usual drawl, typically ignored while we go about out business in a contented haze. When we pay attention, however, to this endless, humdrum drawl, this background noise to our daily lives, it is shockingly apparent that our society is incredibly focused on the worst of the world. The news is filled with the horrors of our reality: murder, storms, death, war, rape, and destruction. Our society, though we will deny it with every ounce of conviction we contain in our bodies, craves this horror and has a sick fascination with the darkness within our world and ourselves.
     I believe we crave knowledge of our other half, but in a disturbing way, we already understand it better than any other part of our natures. I believe it is simpler for me to describe a pitch black room than one filled with sunlight and I believe chaos is easier to write of than perfection. This, primarily, is because perfection does not, will not, and cannot ever exist in this world of ours. Perfection is but a fleeting ideal dreamed up by people hungry for a better reality. Perfection may be in our future reality, but it is not in our present one, and because of this, I cannot understand it and thus have extreme difficulty when forced to explain this end of the spectrum.
     We are all two people. Which of these two is dominant depends upon influences which begin at birth. No one is perfect. We each have flaws. Whether we have a heinous scar from a house fire started when a match slipped from a hand, or a ravaging eating disorder, we all know imperfection. This understanding is at the same time utterly sad and undeniably interesting. It is also our greatest hope. Though perfection cannot be achieved, we may be able to take our understanding and turn it for the good. Someday, even, we might just beat this world of chaos, but first we have to accept what we truly are.
   

A Torrent of Mistaken Dreams

      The hull of the ship was massive, imposing, a giant on the shores of the Atlantic. It was battered and beaten, weathered and worn from salt and wind, storm and gale, but that only made her want it more. She stepped onto its deck, firm of foot and sure of purpose. She wanted to explore, to branch out. She felt in charge aboard the ship, as if she wielded power, immense and inexhaustible.

     As sails bloomed overhead, pulled taught from icy wind which blew with a violent intensity, excitement  coursed through her veins, its warmth a shield against the bitter cold air. Her heart raced on with the ship as it sped away from the bustling quay. This was all she'd ever wanted, all she'd ever dreamt of or desired with the capacity of her soul. 

     Her homeland grew distant as the shoreline fled from view, the buildings forming tiny, indistinct specks over the reach of water. Darting with a growing unease, her eyes raced across the horizon towards the land she would never see again, but had never, until this moment, really hoped to.

     Cerulean plains became her surroundings, a bleak and all encompassing landscape of water, tossing and crashing against the hull of the ship, screeching in a torrent of angry screams. For the first time she felt so small, tiny in comparison to the true enormity of the universe. For the first time in her life, she was truly, undeniably alone. 

     Suddenly, an ache like no other crushed her to the core, carved it out, and left her with a gaping, inexplicable hollow where once was life and warmth. She clutched her hands about the splintered rails, her knuckles stark white with the effort of holding onto some invisible, fleeting hope, long lost to the winds over the briny water. She felt empty, distant, and utterly lonely. 

     How could she not have seen? How could she have been so mistaken? All of her life she had fantasized leaving the safety of the land and the comforts of home far behind, but now that it was gone to her, completely and without chance of return, all she wanted most in the world was to just have it back. 

Nothing

What is nothing? Nothing cannot exist. The simple fact that nothing can be thought of means it is something and so cannot be nothing. And by giving nothing a name we are in a sense admitting it is something and thus, at the same time, by admitting it is something, proving that it cannot exist.
To try to imagine nothing is impossible in itself. When forced to contemplate an empty void, our brains begin to burn with the effort and the concept becomes overwhelmingly, intensely unfathomable to the point where it becomes actually painful. This is most curious. People have always referred to "nothing" without much thought or consideration, but when one actually begins to delve into the true meaning of the word, they find that logically it makes no sense.
Imagine this void, this landscape of endless empty. It is a gaping hollow void of absolutely everything. Void of time, void of life, void of substance. It is the end of all something and it is the beginning of nothing. And it does not exist.

Into the Blue

     One can not say they love a place until they have spent time there. I can not say I would love to live in England, because I can only imagine what it might be like. I can not say I would love to live in Australia or Italy, for I have never experienced life inside their borders. But I can say that I love Franklin County, Florida. It is not my home, but I left my heart inside of its limits the summer of 2011 to explore the wild world of marine biology.
     Apalachicola Bay sits in the heart of the Florida's panhandle under the blazing southern sun. It's a small town full of fishermen and scientists, park rangers and wildlife. The estuary is teaming with life, the rivers with manatees. Everything is beautiful in its own special, somewhat unconventional way. It takes a certain type of person to fully appreciate it.
     From the first dip in the waters, my snorkeling fins bobbing in the waves, I was hopelessly in love. Swimming over the sea grass beds in the quiet of water filled ears was other worldly. I was entranced in the complexity of it all, yet somehow hypnotized by its simplicity at the same time. Nothing mattered in the water, only my subtle breathing was audible and the steady beating of my heart as I swam.
     Tiny fish came up to greet me, so close and real. Sea grass brushed my arms and legs, a gentle endless wave of motion. I tried to take it all in, freeze the moment in a memory and store it in the safest place. Days were spent this way, snorkeling in the beds of oceanic greenery and pristine, sugary sand bars. It was magic on Earth.

     At night, when the tides were low, we'd venture out at midnight, below the moon and strikes of purple lightning, to collect our specimens which so happened to be blue crabs. Blue crabs are terribly violent and extremely difficult to deal with. Collecting them was a challenge, but we somehow managed to catch a whopping forty-two. Below our feet, they'd nip at our tennis shoes and we would stalk across the dagger sharp oyster bars in search of our prey. 
     One night, as we set out to collect, we heard a funny call not unlike a seagull. It happened to be a baby alligator following us on our trek in the estuary. Afraid of its mother coming for us, we hurriedly turned back and marched to the shore through the water, too afraid to step in the grassy banks for the copperheads. Never does the fun end.

     After two weeks, we left this place, venturing down to Crystal River to dive into its icy waters with the manatees. In the murky water filled with hydrilla, we awaited the sea cows patiently. Suddenly I felt something slick and wet beneath my legs and began to rise out of the water. Fear shot through my mind at first, but not for long. Laughter burst from my mouth as I realized I was being picked up by a manatee. 
     I often think of Florida. Those memories I shall cherish forever and never will forget. As I write this, I know I will be on my way there again tomorrow, for another trip to the Florida State Marine Lab to make more memories and have new experiences. The snails I am to experiment on await me anxiously, as I await Florida with inexplicable excitement.

Magenta House

 

We are curious beings, all at once trying to be special but striving to fit in to a social cookie cutter. The difficult balance is sometimes shaky and some may fall. But those who do not worry about this balance tend to succeed in extraordinary ways. These are the people who are remembered. The ones who paint their house magenta for all the world to see. 

      While driving down a cozy lane in a country town, with quaint homes, open hearths and creaky rocking chairs swaying in the breeze, I often wonder why the pallet of human kind is so very limited. In the typical modern neighborhood, color is often subtle and likely to sooth rather than surprise. But isn't this boring? Why is it we find it necessary to blend in and feel comfortable? Whoever said we had to be so very neutral? And those who dare are judged.

      Those who have the courage to stand beside their brilliantly colored house would stand alone. Their rainbow palace would shine among their fellow, quieter cousins. The house would be mocked, yet some would admire the flare which it would bare. Some would be disgusted at the colorful spectacle, and others jealous at the nerve to paint it with such bold strokes. With the courage to stand out must come the ability to accept harsh criticism and ignore unfair judgement. 

      But what if our typical neighborhood transformed itself into bright hues of magenta and canary yellow set against violet and bursting orange? There would be color everywhere in the world. It may not be calming, but who wants to be calm when life is exciting? Our society is set into the dull tones of what it has become accustomed. A wave of change would spray adventure on the sands of our culture.

     By nature, we are creatures of habit. We fall into patterns and sometimes never escape their grasps. It is in our mindset to blend in. But I say, stand out. Be who you are, not who you, or others, feel you should be. Hold true to yourself. Paint your house magenta and live in it. 

Hello Strange World

     Hello strange world.

     For as long as I can remember, I have had an insatiable desire for knowledge. I believe we are meant to attempt understanding, even though we will never know the answers to the questions which feed our curiosity. It is with this drive that we might improve ourselves and better not only our brief and insignificant lives, but impact the ever changing world around us. Who are we to set a boundary on the things we can't even understand?
     The endless see of velvet ebony in which we float is vast and overwhelming. We are meant to reach out into its twilit depths and play with ideas some would think impossible. But is anything impossible? I think if you truly believe in something then it is real. At least it is real in your mind. Thoughts are real, yet intangible, so why can't this hold true for beliefs? Are they not stored in our thoughts? 
     Humans tend to forget the power of imagination and the beauty it can hold as we grow older. The mind of children is every playing with the world of make believe without question. Maybe we would do good to hold onto this mindset, to be able to believe again. Where there is belief, there is hope. Adults often lose hope too quickly.