Molting

     One day his skin started itching. He was walking towards home on the four lane, kicking up gravel and wishing the sun would stop shining. It was hot. Too hot. Sweat rolled down his back like the endless cars that kept flying by on down the road. He hated it all. The beaming sun. The traffic. The glare and the sound. But, most of all, he hated the way his t-shirt clung to him, how the logo of some long forgotten band stuck to his chest like a brand. It was unbearable.
     Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer. His thoughts were racing. He was dizzy from the heat and the day. His skin was on fire and itching all over as if some mad parasite were eating at his very bones. He ripped off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder, lined with bloody marks that his fingernails had traced. The old t-shirt felt like a sack of bricks as it hung there, wringing wet and dripping, leaving a trail of hot sweat and blood behind him in the dirt. He threw it to the ground, unable to bare its burden, a cloud of dust blooming behind him.
    He dug his fingers into his arms, his neck as the feeling crawled inside of his skin. The heels of his feet were on fire, alive with this sensation. He wished it would die. He shook off his dirt caked boots one by one, yanking hard until he ripped the laces right from the leather that had seen so much earth and ware. He tossed them aside recklessly, hurling the boots towards the oncoming traffic. Horns blared in the air but he didn't even notice. All he could hear, see or feel was the itch that borrowed deeper into his body with every passing second.
     The fabric of his jeans constricted every nerve. He ripped off every shred of clothes that remained and threw them out into the wind. He was stark and pale, covered with freckles, and he was naked like the day he was born. The taboo didn't phase him as he walked along the highway receiving stares filled with astonishment, disgust and laughter from passerby. He was a spectacle, a traveling sideshow without a circus, no ring master, only subject to the excruciating tingling that tortured his skin and nothing else.
     The air was hot and thick around him, swarming like bees, stinging every inch of his body. His fingernails continued to scrape wildly away. The flesh on his arms began to feel dry, papery even. He felt air begin to get closer to his muscle, his bones. The skin on his body was shedding, peeling away. It was relief, sweet and longed for. The crazed feeling began to ease as his skin gave way to reveal the crimson world beneath the surface. He was walking muscle and sinew, tendon and vein. 
     With his arms outstretched, reaching to the sky, to the sun that he had hated with a blinding fury only moments ago, he watched with ecstasy as his muscles twisted away like ribbons in the wind until he was bone and organ, a walking cadaver. But he was alive with a fire he hadn't felt since the day he lost his job. Since the day he couldn't feed his family or afford his home. Since he ended up on the street alone. No future. Trapped in an invisible box called poverty.
     Eventually, all that was left of him was his bones. People gawked at the skeleton beyond their window, feared this creature, this life without substance, walking on the side of the four lane. He was the bane of society. And yet they pitied him too. But this was his greatest moment of joy. He had let the world, his body, and his life go and was crumbling, turning to dust in the wind. No more thinking. All would end.

To Be Golden

     It sounded like a spoon on a washboard, rolling back and forth over and over, again and again. It would not cease. It had no end. The sound was all there was in the dark of the bedroom, save for the flashes of lightning that ripped across the ceiling and rattled the house so bad the walls shook as if they were coming down. Nothing could save me in that little house, so I hid under my old, ratty quilt with that funny hole in it that no one really knew how it got there. I thought it could protect me, shelter me and defend me from the storm. I was wrong.  
     The thunder rang on and on, crashing down around the house as I buried myself deeper beneath the thin cover that was my barrier to the world. A loud crack ripped through the air and my ears began to ring so loud I thought they would bleed. The screeching of a tree breaking, crashing down, swarmed around me. And then the storm stopped. Slowly, sunlight crept into the room, flooding into every corner, every crevice. I relinquished my grasp on the quilt with apprehension. The storm was over, and yet I was still afraid. I was afraid to see beyond the covers, to let go of my piece of darkness and give my eyes unto the world.
     I ripped away the quilt. Brightness enveloped me and I was blinded. I saw constellations, their beauty rippling before my vision, shielding me from my surroundings. The stars danced before my eyes, gently fading like the warm breeze that surrounded me, floating away. I was in a field, all hazy with pollen, a yellowy cloud. My nightgown blew gently round my legs where I had thrown the quilt away. I shivered but the air was warm, warm like a summer night, all muggy and sweet. My head throbbed as if it had been struck.
     Slowly, I got down from my bed and stood in the field. The grass was sopping wet and I felt my feet mush in the mud beneath me, the earth sneaking between my bare toes. A black stream was running through the field some feet away, soaking up all the light. I made my way towards the oddity and found, not water, but asphalt. It was no stream, but a road. It was a curious thing, all alone in the field winding its path to who knows where. I stood there awhile, taking in the distinct scent of cool summer rain on hot pavement. Then I decided to walk on.
     I stepped onto the asphalt and a rush of warmth ran through the soles of my feet, up my legs. The asphalt was new. That I could see. No rays of sun dared to reflect off its surface. The surface was shiny as if it was a sheet of black glass, waiting, begging even, to be cracked. I was afraid to take a step, afraid to break it. Holding my breath, I began to walk.
     I walked beneath a cotton candy sky, all blue and pink and white with clouds out of some dream, too perfect in their form. It was wondrously clear and bright. The air was humid and sticky, but there was something so pleasant about the warmth that I didn't care. I just kept walking down the glass road, floating really.
     And I walked and walked, yet everything looked the same. The field stretched out on either side of me, never changing while the road went on and on. The pain in my head remained but was slowly subsiding. My bare feet were beginning to ache. Something inside of me pushed me on and I would not stop. I had a strange feeling as I walked farther that I was supposed to reach the end of the path. Whether this was driven by my own curiosity or something much greater I was not certain. But I had to reach the end.
     It felt like hours, days even, until I saw the end. There were vibrant trees, bright green covered with blossoming white flowers , that stretched across the field as far as the eye could. It was like the entrance to some enchanted forest, a gateway to another world, another life. I ignored the hammering of my feet and ran to the forest as if I was racing some invisible opponent, competing for entrance into this land beyond the trees.
     The forest opened up for me, embraced me and welcomed me. Inside the trees, there were faces, ghostly, golden faces staring at me. Their eyes were bright and shining, filled with something I had yet to understand, to realize and to feel. They nodded as I gingerly touched my temple, the source of the throbbing in my head, my fingers gingerly grazing my head. I felt something warm and wet and recoiled. My fingertips were bright, scarlet red. I studied the color with unbelieving awe and touched my face again. It was a battered mess of flesh and blood. I could not see but I could feel the damage. My right eye was sunken, swollen. My skull was broken, cracked and destroyed.
     But the pain was gone. Only a whisper remained. I sat down on the cool, damp ground as the faces gathered around me. I felt their presence, their peace. Their golden eyes were all there was and I forgot myself. They touched their skulls and so did I. The cracks began to fill. My swollen, sunken eye slowly became the delicate creature it once was again. I stood again and my legs began to fade away beneath me, drifting away like smoke, and then my arms, my waist, and my neck went too. I felt the thrill of the transformation in soul. All that was left was my face, unbroken, perfect.
     I was golden.

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.
 
   
   

Forgiveness

     People can be cruel and sometimes we're hurt. We're hurt so bad it's impossible to think of ever healing. The pain consumes us, follows us around like an angry shadow, darkening day, blackening night, turning over and over in our minds, ripping a fresh wound each time. Whether it was a word misused, a phrase misconstrued, an action misunderstood, we all choose how we deal with these moments that hurt us. It is up to us to decide what move to make, how to retaliate. We are all queens on the chess board, men and women, boys and girls, for all options are open, but unlike chess there is always one choice that will win the game, and for everyone.
     Life is tough, confusing. We each deal with stressful, odd, and bad situations where there appears to be no right answer and the flame of hope seems to extinguished. Sometimes we hurt each other, we let words come from our mouths that we never thought our voice would carry, and most often we don't mean half of what we said. We lose ourselves in anger. We fall apart from the pain of being hurt and lash out with thoughts like knives, never meant to actually be heard. And as soon as we let these thoughts loose, we regret it, we want to take it back, to have the moment back again just before they were said. To restrain ourselves. Every decision we make has a consequence, and these impulsive actions only result in a retaliation and a cycle begins. We must know the moves to make to heal, not to hurt, to get closer to the king, not farther away.
    It takes time to heal. It takes time to learn. To learn to step back and be objective, to be empathetic, to really feel. Once we allow ourselves to calm down, to cool the anger inside of us, to look at the other person and understand their side too, only then can both sides win. For when we allow ourselves into the mind of another, to really make an effort to make things right, we can forgive. Forgiveness is the move to the king, but it is not a move that conquers the other, it is a move that brings you closer together and ends the game.
     Life is tough, confusing. Being hurt blinds us, deafens us, takes away our senses. It strips us of our sanity. It makes us irrational, rash, and in the wrong. We have to give in, to sacrifice a bishop, to give up a knight for the cause, to let a rook be taken, in order to move forward.  We have to move square after square, step by step, in order to reach the king. We have to forgive. And forgiveness is peace, it is a beautiful, pure expression of love and happiness. And love is the last move. Love is the checkmate.

Beyond the Dirty Window of a Storefront In Town

            A dim, neon sign hangs above the foggy pane of the window, draped in a shroud of condensation, masking the interior. Cars are parked haphazardly in a crumbling lot before an old, weathered dry cleaner’s. All is dark. All is quiet.

            Inside, however, is a different story. A low buzz is barely audible from the flickering lights dangling from the ceiling. The worn carpet could be eighty years old; its fabric, tattered and torn, holds the dirt and dust of the ages. The room is small and claustrophobic, lined with comics from years long passed and books filled with tales of sweeping fantasy, some mesmerizing, some decent, some terrible, all together on disordered shelves. A glass counter holds the platonic solid shapes of dice of every shade, color, and hue, their vibrancy mingling in small, assorted piles, the more expensive residing in special plastic boxes a if they were rare gems.

            Then there are the cards, each with a special name, a special illustration, and a special purpose. They are coveted, priceless commodities. They lie beneath the clouded, glass countertop like rare jewels in a gallery. They are prized and beloved, representing not just a game, but an addictive escape from reality, a transcendence into another world, the world of Magic, and the people come here to this tiny store forgotten by so many to play.

            These people sit about long tables, eye-to-eye with their opponent, ready to plunge into this alternative reality. Their skin is pallid, sallow, as if the sun has never graced their bodies, as if they have never seen the periwinkle blue of the skies. Their corporeal forms hunker down in chairs distressed and almost screaming from the weight and age they bare, the cheap cushions threadbare and tired. The acrid scent of sweat invades the air.

            There are noticeably less women than men, shockingly so, but, at the same time, expected. Most are college students, giving up parties and society for this other, hidden world, this game called Magic. It is mesmerizing that there are as many of them as there are. The store is crowded, packed even, with bodies, tables, and chairs. There is no space to walk, to breath. There is only magic.

            Utter silence, save for only one sound. This is the sound of shuffling, of cards crinkling, folding, slapping against one another, and sliding across the rough, plastic surfaces of the tables. On these tables are many versions of the same scene: one small deck of cards, face down, unknown to the player, and small rows of cards face up, turned in different directions, guns cocked and ready to fire.

            The eyes in the room are only for the cards, nothing else. Brows are furrowed in total and complete concentration. Their focus is steel, unbendable and unbreakable, armor not only against the opponents, but against the outside world. The store is a sanctuary, a place frozen in time and untouched by reality. It is a place of refuge for those of the game. And the game consumes. Those who play are transformed, never to be the same, their minds riddled with thoughts of cards, booster packs, paper spells, and strategies. They skip meals to buy more cards, hoarding them up, storing them in delicate plastic sleeves tucked in binders, card protectors, and boxes stuffed full. There are never enough cards, combinations, or wins. There is never enough Magic. And their faces say it all.

            The intensity of the room is almost tangible. The veil of seriousness that has descended appears, to an onlooker, almost comical. But there is also an innocence. These are people who have never lost the gift of imagination, who have locked it away, preserved it, and live in it. There is subtle beauty about it, an undeniable simplicity that must be admired, even envied. Humans are too quick to grow up and lose their childish spirit and its ability to appreciate the small things. Some would say that the people huddled over their cards, fretting over their next move, never grew up, but this is not so. They did grow up, but in a different way. And who is to say they are living their life in a less meaningful way than anyone else buried under a desk stacked with papers behind the glowing screen of a computer like a slave, while the people playing Magic are free?

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.