The Day A Person Lived

     It's a funny thing as you get older. You think you know who you are and then you wake up one day and you can't recognize yourself. Every time you pass by a mirror, you steal a quick glance just to make sure the person inside of your head wears the same face as the person who gazed back yesterday. And, of course, the same brown eyes, the same mouth, the same little freckle on your left cheek are all the same. The way you stand with your feet turned out and your hand on your hip, the laziness of your posture, the way your head tilts slightly to the side, is indeed the person who stood across from you a year ago, or even five. But the eyes are unsure, the mouth isn't curved up in a knowing smile, there is an awkwardness in the way you hold yourself, as if you are not the owner of the body in which you stand, a mere echo of the person who once was.
    You go on, lying to yourself every day that you haven't changed, that you are no different than the vibrant being who once walked the earth but is now almost extinct. You were full of life, the excitement of simply existing used to flood your veins with happiness, coursing through your body like electricity, lighting the way. You once thought you knew your path, where you were supposed to go, what you were supposed to do, your purpose. But one day, you woke up and realized you weren't that sure anymore, that there is more grey in the world than black and white, and that you aren't really certain on whose side you stand, what you believe, or who you belong with. The idea of this is simply torturous. It is frightening, wholly unnerving, and beyond your capacity to cope with. The thoughts are eating you alive so you decide to put them away, bury them in the deepest recesses of your mind and shut them off completely before they destroy you. And you go on with your life, but you aren't really living, merely existing, floating through time as a sad memory of the person who once was, who once was allowed to be free.
     But that person is still alive, screaming inside to be let out again, to be allowed to breath, to live again. They are trapped inside of you, fighting a war to survive. And that person hangs on, even if only by a mere thread, for they cannot die, they are who you truly are even if you seem to not remember what it ever felt like to not be hollow, to not be this shell of a person you have become. That person, your true self, will always exist, for it is the only part of you released from the limitations of human form. It is your essence, your spirit, your soul.
     And someday, something small perhaps, will awaken it. It could be something as insignificant as a glimpse of the sun on the first true day of spring, or maybe a conversation with a friend, possibly completely unrelated, that jolts the memory of who you once were. And for the first time, you are forced to face the fear which you suppressed. To accept that you really have become someone unrecognizable, a shadow. It is painful, excruciating even, to realize what you have tried so hard to ignore. But this excruciating pain, you find, is actually bearable, a relief, even, from the numbness and unfeeling which you have experienced for so long. In a matter of seconds you heal.
      All of a sudden, the happiness you feel is inexplicable and you realize that the way you have been viewing life, the world, and yourself is totally wrong and that finally you understand. It is blissful and peaceful. It beings in your chests, welling up and spreading through your legs, through your arms, down to your finger and toes.You feel whole for the first time since your true self was chained up and locked away. You are once again living. You are happy. And once again you know exactly who you truly are. You are you.

The Orange Hands Man

     He was standing on the bustling street corner before a cross walk whose black screen was aglow with the angry,  red silhouette of a hand outstretched, holding back would be crossers. He was old and small and bearded, happily so, with a touch of jovial mischief about his face. His eyes were like deep wells filled to the brim with cement, unseeing but full of life and wonder. He was content, his demeanor almost tranquil, yet within there was a fire still burning, a gale blustering about creating a mad haze of  boy-like excitement for the prospects the world had to offer, but he just couldn't reach them.
     The golden light of restaurant fronts cast his shadow on the ground. He studied it and felt taller, greater, larger than the world itself. He studied people in the windows, on the streets, the sidewalks, the cars slowing to a stop at the intersection where he stood. They were each special. He knew this. He saw their hearts in their eyes, read their lives upon their faces and understood them. He could feel them, these lives, within his fingers, palms, within his hands. And his hands were orange, bright orange like the neon sign above the dirty tattoo parlor three blocks down, flickering on and off in the night indecisively. And every time he would catch a glimpse of his hands it would remind him, remind him of the wonder of the world and the people in it.
     His hands were his memory. They were the source of all his feelings, his anger, his happiness, his sadness, his love. For everything he did, his hands were colored. They had been orange for years, glowing strongly, brilliantly, in the night of the streets, through the maroon gloom, the black alleys, the dark edges of the city, constant companions.
     Each passerby was different as he stared them in the eye, each with their own problems, issues, fears, hopes, and dreams. They were all recipients of his maddeningly yellow smile, the creases nestled about his eyes, the lines on his knowing face. And he would lift his orange hands to his chest and wave them, his palms facing the onlookers, spreading the color, the life, the joy, the message from his heart and his mind. The orange hands man loves everybody and he wants everybody to know.

An Argument for the Adult Consumption of "Children's" Stories

     I was sitting in a dorm room at one in the morning holding a collector's edition Hermione's wand and wearing Harry Potter glasses. It was dark and loud with talking, talking about classes, about movies, about life, about books, when friends began to criticize a series I hold dear, Harry Potter. They took every element of the book and stripped it down so far that the magic became hard to grasp, difficult to remember, from the way in which they were describing the story. Every mistake, every loop hole that J.K. Rowling left unfixed and opened, they ripped apart and used as evidence as to why the series is not worth the merit and fandom it has received. I was truly shook up. I began to analyze the series in my mind, to evaluate the feelings which had so strongly stemmed from the story of a young boy wizard, orphaned and alone, developing friendships and coming to terms with his life, his trials and destiny, and how he conquered the evil in this world. I soon realized that the loopholes do not matter, they will never matter. The story was something more to me; it was a childhood, a life, an adventure.
     It was seventh grade. I was a slightly chubby thirteen year old, round belly, skinny legs. My group of friends was not "popular", we were not the middle school athletes, the super nerds, or the kids that people feared. We were simply the in-betweens. We belonged nowhere, and because of that, we belonged with each other. We were diverse and different, each of us unique in our own quirky way. But one crucial thing united us, we loved to read. And I read. I read everything I could get my hands on from as early as I can remember, and seventh grade, a particularly nasty year for me, being the subject of mild bullying that I completely survived, was the fateful year I discovered the books that would change my world, Harry Potter. I was in the library, happily searching the old dusty shelves of too few books for my next journey, my next escape, when I ended up in the aisle with the Harry Potter series. I knew of it. Oh, I knew about it. I had watched the first movie the year it came out when I was only in kindergarten. Yet, I had refused to read it up until this moment, believing, as in hipster-like fashion, that it was "too popular" to be worth it.
     I gave in.
     In a few months I had savored them all, careful not to read them too fast lest they end too quickly. I was, quite honestly, and not the least bit melodramatically, depressed when I had reached their end. I no longer knew what to do with myself. I was completely immersed in this world of imagination, of endless magic, of friendship and danger. It took me away, it carried me off to a place where it didn't matter whether or not I was pretty, whether or not I was "cool", and it taught me that being different, being a part of the group that has no group, is completely fine, and sometimes, it can be a good thing.
     After middle school, I slowly transformed. I was no longer the shy, quiet girl huddled behind a book like I had been. I was a different person, happy, outgoing, and confident. I became a runner, made new friends, even changed schools. I had molted, but deep down, the core of who I was never changed. I remained an avid reader and never forgot the story about the boy wizard, his two best friends, and the parallel childhoods we had together. Now, in college, I think about the books almost every day, for they are not simply a part of my life, they are a part of me.
     So that night, sitting in my dorm room, listening to friends bash the books that I had esteemed and lived, that were an integral piece of what made my childhood so memorable, I realized something. It occurred to me that I was incredibly lucky. I was allowed to be apart of this world, this beautiful journey through the imagination, without question, but only wonder. I had a childhood full of play, pretend, and magic. The story means something to me not because it is the greatest piece of literature that ever graced the earth, but simply because it was my story. Harry Potter represents what my childhood felt like, stood for, and meant to me.
     There is a simple wonder to the unquestioning minds of children which I find too many of us forget as we grow older. Too often are beautiful stories cast aside as for only "children", when really the imagination and sheer illogic of the tales is what makes them great. The simplicity and imperfection is incorrectly taken to mean they are not for adults, when really I think adults are the ones who need the stories most. We are not meant to live these dull and humdrum lives that society throws at us. We are meant to be free. And no other genre exhibits such breathtaking liberation as that of children, for children, when allowed to live the childhoods they deserve, are truly free.

Then Am I the Unhappy Fly

     When I close my eyes, I see spiders. Lithe and stringy limbs, moving through the web of their world, unimpeded by their home, meant to capture, trap, and kill. These spiders are beautiful, and in my mind, I  too am dancing across this web of peril, completely unaffected by its lethal nature.
     But when I open my eyes upon a mirror, the reflection within is not of a spider, but of a fly. A hideous fly, unwanted and prey to the creatures of beauty. And here I stand weeping, feeling tragic and hopeless. I am no more than a blemish, a creature meant to feed, not to be fed, a creature meant to be caught in this tangled web of torturous reality, not to be liberated by the gentle hand of mercy.
     Despite it all, I admire them, the spiders. I long to be them, to look as they look, to feel as they feel, to have a taste of their effortless beauty. They are thin and elegant, long and dainty. Every move they make, weaving their magnificent web, is with a grace that is perfect in its form, unachievable by a mere fly.
    And I am caught in this web, captured by this reality that I cannot begin to even grasp, but that I cruelly understand. I know that I am nothing but a worthless fly meant to be preyed upon by the kin that so surpasses me. I am hopeless, helpless, destitute and unsure, afraid to live for living has no purpose, no reason for a fly; it is but existence, not a life. I will never look upon a mirror without shame, without longing. I will always be less than, unworthy.
     But then I close my eyes, and when my drowsy lids slip shut, I see a world that is all my own. In this world, my hideous shape is transformed into that of an exceptional being, a being long and lean, and of colors deep and light, a true spider. And this is the world, and this is everyone. We are all beautiful, each of us, thin creatures of an easy elegance, natural. And we are dancing, descending along thin lines of thread and weaving the patterns of our world, intertwining our hopes, fears, dreams, desires, and insecurities into a tapestry of infinite complexity and harmonic union. We are delicate in motion, stunning and captivating, transfixed upon the wild and subtle gravity that is the aesthetics of it all. We are beautiful.
     The illusion falls through, is pealed away and I am left naked. Once again I see myself and shudder at the stark, unbidden face that stares back. It will always be this way. I will always be this way. This game will go on forever and I am forever trapped. Nothing can release me from the pain of being myself, of awaking every day to the truth of it all, the sadness that ensues. I will always be a fly and for flies there is no love.