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.