But Wait, There's More

Subject:	To New Beginnings and Old Friends
Time:	11:44 am.
Mood:	okay

I've recently been dealt a few unlucky situations as the year wrapped. I was ruminating over this at the library yesterday. Because I had accidentally locked myself out of my apartment.

During my ruminations, I thought back to this old Blurty of mine. This quite little journal where I've stored so many of my stories. It is here that I unlocked the mysteries of the universe, reshaped the directions of my life, developed an understanding for those I have come to cherish, and idly wasted away the hours without concern or care for 'sunshine' or 'motivation' or any of that other tomfoolery. Yes, during the ruminations, I decided that I wanted to come back for good.

So I then asked myself, why have I been hovering in and out of this writing romance of mine? What has been keeping me from settling on this decision a year, or even two years ago? Why, when I sat down today, was I a little hesitant as I stared at my blank canvas? And I think I figured out why.

It's because of you.

Whoever 'you' are. Old friend? Old flame? A stranger passing through? A wayward child or despondent traveler? Or some other overly-dramatic representation of a web surfer? I do not know whom I am speaking to. I do not know if my audience adores me, or if the fleeting viewers fleet further after reading this hackneyed mess. I do not know if I am entirely alone on this plot of cyberspace. That mystery is what bothers me. Because I place a lot more in here than words and thoughts. I am wary as to who I am sharing myself with.

But I want to say something. I've seen a lot of stuff, heard a lot of stories, and met many many people. I want to share. I want to hope and think that people are benefiting what I have written. As a laugh, or a comfort, or even a crude reality. I want to give back. And though I am still unsure about whom I am giving to, or what they intend to do with it, that small risk is worth the reward.

So, let's see if it sticks this time. I want to write, I want to share, and I want to do it here. Seems pretty simple, right?

David.

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Subject:	The End of the Begining
Time:	11:54 pm.

Bit by bit the pieces fall into place. Now, I'm not entirely sure which piece is supposed to go into which section of this big, mad scheme, but I do know that if it finds a spot that fits, then there is no harm in seeing how well the combination will turn out. Perhaps the pieces that come together are meant to be? Or maybe there is no real plan and pieces go where ever they may go...without those delicate rhymes or reasons. Regardless, where the pieces go does not really matter. I only wish to explain to you that pieces are going and things are happening because of this gathering.

What does matter, mind you, is what seems to be showing up. Now, I cannot say that it is a good picture or a bad picture. I cannot say that it will be a masterpiece or merely a family heirloom that hangs on the fall for the sheer beauty of reminiscence. No, those small details are not for me to decide. However, it will be shown when the time is right. We will all see, yes. We will all experience what is created together. And how I long for that moment. To see the fruition of all those random moments, the art crafted by each interlocking piece of the puzzle, that will be a surprise to you and I.

However, I can share this bit of information with you. I will let you in on this one secret. As of yet, I have failed to see how a specific piece will be thrown into the mix. It bounces and rolls, rises and falls, never seeming to find a spot to fit. Over the years I have observed this piece, studied it for either idiocy or brilliance. Time and again I assumed that this one piece had found home within the puzzle, fallen for good. And time and again I have watched with interest how the piece rises and moves on. But I do know this of that one illustrious piece. Though it does dance atop the others, lost in consternation and unworried of the work being done so rapidly beneath it, this outlier is important. Once it takes rest for good, the picture will begin to show. As of yet, chaos and excitement are all that have been created. But once this final piece lands, the picture will be seen as more than a collection of pieces. Yes, once that one part of the puzzle finds its home, the story will begin.

And I cannot wait much longer for us to find out what that story is.

David.

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Time:

2:14 pm.

'Now what?' he wondered.

He looked left. A wide field, covered in grass and flowers, stood beside him. With a slow turn, he looked to the right. More grass, and more flowers, as far as his eyes could see. He looked forward, down the thin trail. On and on it went, layered in dry dirt, edged by the same grass and flowers. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. An aroma of green slipped in with the air. Beneath that, lingering in his senses, the subtle hint of clean dirt. There was no wind, and no blistering heat. Everything was still and tepid. Calmness and serenity surrounded him.

A smile grew on his face. His eyes opened quickly. 'Now what?' he had wondered a moment ago. But the answer was clear to him. As clear as the bright blue sky above, as clear as the trail laid out before him. Without the heat to tire him, without the wind to challenge him, he had only one thought.

So he ran. This was no simple jog, no, not a pace for the peaceful. In an instant his legs pounded against the ground. He raced through the trail, the flowers that edged against it whipping him as he passed. However, these slight strikes did nothing to bother him. Each flower was a sharp caress, a life trying to touch him, to be with him if only for a moment on his charge. He laughed lightly, as much as his breath would allow during the sprint. As he continued the dirt beneath him shifted, slid under each step, threatening to come loose should his feet fail to take the next stride. Yet he felt no concern for the unsettled earth. Each threat was but another drive to move his feet faster, to pump his legs harder, to pick up his speed and leave the undependable dirt to wallow in its own dust. Another small laugh escaped him, caught between breaths.

As his heart quickened, and as his lungs awoke to the task at had, this breathing became strong. He drew in each bit of air offered to him. He pulled in that green scent, letting it fuel his body and calm his mind. The fresh aroma of life, of freedom, imbibed him with more strength than he could have mustered on his own. He was grateful for this air, praising it in each breath and thanking it with each exhale. Though he would have laughed at the happiness this brought him, he could no longer afford to waste the precious gift. If he were to continue at this pace he would need to conserve air, lest he fall among the shifting earth, or stop to wilt with the flowers beside him.

Calmness and serenity gave way to desire and passion. His smile had faded into the stern consternation of a man with but one goal. He would not allow himself to cease, to slow, or to even think of anything but his run. This was not the time for fancy and folly, nor subtle happenstance. He imagined not where he was going, for going was all that mattered. He reminisced not of where he had been, for that would only slow his charge. No, the time for imagining, for thinking, for remembering, was gone. This moment belonged to the run. It belonged to the feeling of the flowers whipping against him and the ground beneath his feet. It belonged to the air in his lungs and the life that powered him. He had neither past, nor future to call his own. He was movement. He was speed. He was pure force.

As he continued his body worked to meet the needs of its master, soon feeling the warmth of exertion. His legs began to stiffen, resisting the mind that led them. His chest heaved, swelling to sustain the pace, rattling through each breath. Sweat dewed on his brow and slipped into his eyes. Warmth turned to heat, heat to fire, and soon his body began to burn with exhaustion. However, he was met with a simple blessing. From the distance, from a land he could not see, the wind began to blow. Subtle at first, no more than a ghost, feint upon his skin. Yet the reprise was enough to soothe the aches that racked his body.

However, helpful as it may have seemed to the weary runner, the wind had no intention to aid or relieve. The slight breeze grew, pressing against the land and buffeting the man. Perhaps it noticed the fluidity of his movements. Perhaps it became jealous of his speed. Or perhaps it had simply wished to test his force. Whatever the reason, he paid no mind to this assailant. It's force was still no match for his own. He leaned into the draft, closed his eyes against the gale, and accepted the challenge. Not to be bested, the wind increased the onslaught. It coursed through the field, creating waves in the flowers and grass. It met the trail and lifted dirt and dust into the air. Still the man resisted. His body was soon to expire, yet he would not admit defeat in the face of such an officious opponent. He ran on, the wind blew hard. He leaned further and the wind pressed against him. Neither backed down, neither shuddered under the force of the other. His legs would soon cease to lift, his lungs ragged against the effort. The wind grew to the strength of a great storm. It ripped flowers from the earth and stung him with bits of dirt from the trail. It howled in his ears, careening toward him from the front and wailing after him from behind. His enemy was all around, gaining strength, building and screaming and crushing him from every direction.

Then his body had hit its limit. The flames in his muscles, the burn in his lungs, and the scalding blood that pounded in his temples, all these small fires assembled into one and burnt the last of his energy. His mind went black for an instant, then another. His legs wobbled under each step, his arms swung loosely at his sides. His whole body leaned to the side, brushing against the flowers. Between bouts of unconsciousness he attempted to correct his lean, swaying to the left, then the right. His body could no longer support the run. His legs could no longer stand. His mind now nothing but flashes of flowers and dirt, heat and wind. Soon, even those had succumbed to the darkness. All that remained was the goal. The force to continue. And even that glorious spark was dimming.

With his strength failing he took one more stride, bent his knees, and leapt into the air with the very last of that pure force. For a moment the wind was silenced. Perhaps it ceased only to build enough force to push him back. Perhaps it had stopped to watch his descent, to mock him as he fell to the earth. Or perhaps it had been surprised to see the small bit of strength left within him. Whatever the reason, the silence and stillness was of no concern to him. This was not the time for thinking. No, this moment was for flying. He closed his eyes and floated through the air, waiting for the ground to strike him.

But the ground never came. A sudden surge of air pushed behind him. The wind that had challenged, assailed him, attempted to steal his goal, had turned. It wrapped around his legs, supported his neck. It pressed against his back and carried him down the trail. The flowers caressed his limp hands, and his toes dragged gingerly across the shifting dirt. He let the wind have him, caring not for what it had planned. Together they were movement, speed, pure force. To him, nothing else mattered. How long the wind held him, how long he had been aloft, could have been an instant or an eternity. Unable to even think, the exhaustion of his body had taken over and he slipped into darkness.

When he awoke he was lying in the middle of the field. All around him were the flowers and grass that covered the land. Their sweet green scent filling him up as he breathed in short, raspy gasps. His legs were leaden and his arms refused to leave the ground. He was covered in sweat and sparkles attacked the edges of his vision. He lay in the field and thought for a moment of what had happened. Though this was the time to imagine and remember, very little came back to him. All he could do was let the cool breeze course over him, content to let it cool his sore muscles. He continued to breathe deeply, taking in the chill of the air and the aroma of life around him. And as he lied there, thinking of the calmness and serenity around him, a single thought came to mind.

'Now what?' he wondered. And smiled as it became clear to him.

David.

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Subject:	Wayward Freedom
Time:	9:09 am.

Riches and fame make this little world of ours turn. Who we know and how much we can spend dictate the importance of our words and the worth of our actions. To be less than wealthy and equally unknown insists upon the thought that we are ignorant, foolish, and undeserving of the opportunities that change the world.

And why is this we may ask? Why does the world spin on coin and connect? Why does our merit fall into disparity should we lack the necessary establishment? Many would claim that hard work is the key to success. Though success is so easily given to and so rigorously upheld by those that provided less worth to this world then us that create it. Or perhaps we could say that the meek are simply unfit to rule and must therefore be ruled. But to claim this we would also need to claim that there is a set standard for which we must all meet in order to perform our services for the grand scheme of things. And if this standard were to exist, then we must ask to whom it belongs and in what way it has been crafted. For the standard at present is reliant upon cashflow and handshakes. If a certain amount does not flow, and if a certain hand never reaches out for our own, then we have yet to achieve that standard. Yet again we are lost, swept away from the opportunities that surround us because we simply do not have enough stuff nor know enough names to make our voices heard.

Or perhaps we've yet to find our purpose because that purpose is not within us. Perhaps a select few possess the strength and the skill to lead this world to new horizons. Perhaps we have it, or we do not. And perhaps any triviality we express and simplicity we demand is not worthy of attention because we are but cattle that roam these great acres. We require some feed, some tending, and the chance to ignore the predators on the outskirts, the ones the shepherds remind us of constantly. We are but animals for the slaughter, to make the meat that feeds the world, the cloth that clothes the world, and the silence that keeps the world at bay. We, as animals, are not worthy of rising because we are simply beasts to be upkept.

Then we must ask, what does separate us from the higher powers that tend to be? Why are we but bovine while they are brilliant? Why have we come to be sheep to their shepherds? Why must we flock and follow their whimsy and whim? How have they come to rise out of this herd while the remainder remain? For they are but the same creature. They wish comfort for their homes, as do we we. They demand audience for their voice, as do we. They cry for food in their bellies, mates between their legs, and a sky so beautiful and blue! As do we. Their diligence and dedication is stemmed from the same hope that creates our own. We are all born as animals, with hedonistic need and physiological drive. Though the difference between us is only apparent in the outcome of the life, and not in the creation that dawned it. They are not different. They become different.

Thus the true question is, how do we become different? How do we step aside from our pack and set foot on uncharted land? How to be removed yet still move those that stay behind? For if the outcome we desire is that of prosperity and dignity, how then do we claim this chance as our own? For the tenders to our flock tend to take away these brief glimpses into our future. The view is stifled and lied about, called foolish imagination and idealistic idiocy. The shepherds guide us away from these flights of fancy and calm our curiosity with promises to keep an eye upon the glimmer of things that may come. But be damned of this corralling and cajoling! The slight light at the edge of our vision, the brief view we have been given into the world we wish to lead is out there! It calls to us, for if not then we would not have witnessed it peaking over the horizon! They may claim it predation or desertion! They may cry injustice and inequality, undeserved propensity! We are but the sheep and they the mighty shepherds!

But the sheep and the shepherd are one in the same. So stray my fellow sheep! Wander these hills and roam these pastures! Be not led, but lead! Discover the true predators. Befriend them, fall before them, or befall them as they would have you. Mark a path for the others to march upon. Shout to them that the world is wide and the dangers are great, but diligence must be kept if we are to make it through together! Place in them the need to see with their own eyes, to shape with their own hands, to imagine with their own minds, and to love one another deeply and fully!

For the flock is ours. The pasture is ours. The sky is ours, as is the horizon that meets it. And there we will travel. There we will join. Without coin in our pocket, without need for our shepherds. And there, on the that horizon, at that glimpse of tomorrow, we will make the world a better place. For one and for all.

David.

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Subject:	To Another Love
Time:	7:30 pm.

She left today. As I watched her go I thought about everything I wish I could have said to her. I wanted to call her name. I wanted to run to her and grab her warm hands. I wanted to apologize for all the mistakes I had made, and promise to forgive every one of hers. I wanted to fall to my knees and beg that she would be mine, forever and ever. I wanted to prove that our little love could not end, that we must fight through and find a way.

But my legs would not move. I watched as her hair floated over her shoulders. The same hair that I had dreamt about so many times before. I shivered a little as the truth finally came to me. It was over.

My thoughts, so dangerous and so cruel, raced as she moved further and further away. I imagined the warmth that she would feel in the arms of another. And the kisses I could no longer claim. And the men she would love that were not me. In an instant, a fire of jealousy flared up and burned inside me. A rage that belonged only to her attacked deep within my heart. So much of the past was etched with her, because of her. To give her to someone else, to let her walk into the embrace of another love was too much to bear. I closed my eyes, unable to watch as she left.

My mind then ached as images of our past flooded my memory, playing scenes of our past behind my closed eyes. Of tears she had shed while I held her in my arms, of words I had whispered into her ear as our rising sun lulled us to sleep. The names of the places coursed through my mind, and the breeze of summer nights left a phantom on my skin. The petty arguments that never seemed to end, the silly promises that never seemed to begin. The times we parted, the times we joined. The nights we were one, and the days when I could hardly recognize the girl beside me. Her body had danced, so perfect, so smooth. Her laugh entranced me, so soft, so light. We had agreed on forever, sealing the compact with a kiss. And now forever was leaving, walking away.

Even so, my legs did not move. No matter how badly I had wanted her to stay with me, my legs stood fixed, still against my desire. Why couldn't I chase after her? Why couldn't I step forward? Why couldn't I even muster the strength to try?

And it hit me. Solid and strong. Deep and powerful. I slowly opened my eyes. As I watched her go, as she walked out of my life forever, as I came to the realization that she was gone...a strange and distant happiness grew inside me. Burned by the anger and crushed by the grief, and still that happiness grew. Weighted down with memories and twisted by desire, yet still that happiness grew. As the hair floated behind her, waving to me as she left, a small spark cried out in my heart. I was grateful that this would be the last time I ever fell victim to its beauty.

As she reached the corner and prepared to turn, I felt comforted. No longer would I be afraid of this moment. No longer would I waste my hopes and prayers on our trysted love. My fire had been extinguished and my grief had been consoled. My desire faded as our memories were brought back to me. I was shown the joy I had felt with her, and the lessons we had learned together. The good stories that would belong only to us, and the hardships we forced ourselves to endure...none of it would ever be forgotten. She had made me an honest man, and I had helped her find strength. And when I wander this world I know that she will always be with me, in the back of my mind and the bottom of my heart. Guiding me to be the person she once saw in me. I knew my love for her would always remain. Yet I also knew that the time had come. If I was going to move on, I had to let her go. If I wanted her to find a happiness of her own, I had to let us end. And it felt right. Sad, yes...but right.

So my legs let me turn. I smiled despite the love I had lost, happy though I had walked away.

David.

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Time:

7:35 pm.

Click…click…click…time passed so slowly. He turned his eyes away from the clock and returned them to the ceiling. Losing interest in the white expanse, he turned to his side. Then to his other side. The room was cluttered. Not exactly a mess, as far as messes go. The items strewn about simply looked disorganized. One day, he half-thought to himself, he would have to find the time to set everything in its place. One day, he mused.

He turned his gaze back to the ceiling. He wondered, mostly to himself, why it was time went remarkably slower when you paid attention to it? Click…click…click…the clocked explained. Or at least he would have imagined that to be response if he had spoken clock. But, sadly, time is not something he was blessed to understand. Rather, the telling of the clock, of calendars, of hours and minutes and seconds provided nothing but gibberish to him. Days and months rolled in and out of each other. And every year was simply an list of grand and petty events, their dates lost behind the moments that they were contained in.

He took this time to blow a spit bubble. His first attempted failed miserably. His second allowed a brief moment of success, but popped out of existence all too soon. His third attempt was golden. The bubble formed, grew, and held. How long it held he had no idea. The click…click…click of the clock distracted him from counting, and so the life of the bubble would not be marked with age. That might not be so bad. For a bubble, that is.

As the bubble finally popped, after god knows how long, a small droplet of spittle flew into the air. He watched it rise, reach its apex, and begin to arch back down toward the earth. Following the descent of the spittle, he was too engrossed by the wonders of physics to calculate their mathematics. And the danger of the falling spittle was lost on him until it landed squarely in his eye.

Taken aback, he let out a brief cry, barely audible. More in reflex than in pain, his eye clamped shut to protect it from other threats that may fall from the sky. He raised one hand to the wounded area, and rubbed some life into it. None of what had happened actually injured his eye. In fact, he found that event to be quite amazing. What were the odds of being able to form a spit bubble and popping it in such a way that spittle was launched into the air? And what were the odds of giving that spittle the means necessary to send it high enough into the air to clear a third of his face? And what, then, were the odds of that already impressive trick being brought into grand finale by catching it in his eye? Simply amazing, he thought to himself as he continued to rub his eye. Simply amazing.

Click…click…click…the clock continued. He rolled his usable eye toward the chatty clock’s direction. Quite some time had passed. Not quite enough, but still some.

(…?)

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Time:

8:17 pm.

There are so many choices. Times of yes please, and oh hell no. Times of what feels right and what sounds wrong. Choices to be made in the heat of the moment, and made after days of thought. There are so many choices, some so easy that you never pay attention to how you've made them. Some so difficult that you doubt every step of the way.

They weigh us down, and they lift us up. They test our will and break our hearts. They mean more then they should and happen quicker than we'd like. They pass through our lips, they turn the world in which we live, and they mark the moments that we call life.

But how do we battle the thoughts they invoke? How do we manage to raise our heads when we've wronged? How do we live past the greatest joys that we've created? There are so many choices, and so many more. And many more yet to come and all we can do is close our eyes, let our heart beat a bit longer, and decide.

The dark ideas that we've wrought, and the harsh words that we've spent. How do we ever pay the price of a wrong turn? How do we know when our suffering should end and our betterment should begin? The insipid lies we commit oursevles to. How do we walk away from the person we once were? And how do we find the person we wish we could be? And how do we live with the knowledge of what hides within us? Those that we've turned from, those that we've spurned, those that we've left by the wayside in search of something closer to the life we have always dreamt of on those cold winter nights...how do we continue knowing what we've left behind? How can we allow any thought other than those that remind us again and again of what has been sacrificed without our understanding?

Choices gone awary, choices made in haste, choices that beget regrets and regret that begets more regret. When thumbing through the story of our lives, we come to pages that make our heart sink. We come to tales that we wish we could remove from our memory. But burned upon that white space are the stories that remind us of who we once were. We look back with shock and awe at the folly that beguiles us, at the foolishness that trails us. All the while building disgust within ourselves for the idiocy we've allowed into our past. Yes, those words are there. Those stories are written. Those tales will tell us time and again of the makeshift reason we thought we once had. But the further and further we wander from those moments, the clearer they become. The darker they seem. The other paths we could have taken, the other roads they they could have led to grow just as dim as we realize that they are forever closed to us because of our petty injustices.

Though that past, it lies behind us. To continually glance back upon it, to ponder and to rumble with contemplation and discontent do nothing but draw our attention away from the road that lies ahead. For we've turned our back on others. Some so much better, some simply worse. Still, we've passed the past and cannot wrestle with emotion and regret to atone for those great sins. Our eyes must lie forward. Our eyes must focus on what will be.

For this is why the mistakes we've made, the choices we've failed, came to be so quickly. We've let our vision blur and our intentions waiver as our imaginations wander toward the promised truths that are not quite truth. We've let our sights fall from the destination we've longed for, and for this we have no blame but unto ourselves. We let opportunity and beauty slip past our grasp. And gone though they may be, we must not make that mistake twice or thrice within our lives. We cannot allow our vision to blur, nor our sight to fail. We must take our eyes away from the distraction of the past and align them on that damned horizon that lies in front of us. We must remove our nose from the book of our life and instead raise our head and survey the land that we wander.

We must be prepared for the next choice to be made. We must let it catch our eyes and our attention soon, and fully. we must absorb ourselves in what it is we want and resist the urge to suffer solemnly over what could have been. For when that bitch we call choice returns yet again, we need to fortify our minds and embolden our wills to stand against the howling winds our imagination and contemplation can create. Our focus must be on what will be. Our attention must lie on truth. Our eyes must see only that which is real. And our choices must be made. No longer will we crane our neck to be reminded of what we've lost! No longer will we count how many footsteps it has been since we've wronged! No longer will we suffice ourselves with could-haves and would-haves!

Neigh, for the next choice will be ours! We will catch it early, we will grab it firmly, and we will use it wisely to meet ours ends! The past has passed us for far too long. Now...now we will make amends. And our eyes will see what will be, not what could have been.

David.

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Time:

10:26 pm.

He took a step and looked back. He saw nothing. He took another step and looked back again, longer this time. And still he saw nothing. He took a third step and stood for a moment. He thought of turning again. He thought of what he may see. Or maybe what he would not see. Soon his curiosity...or was it his fear?...got the best of him and he turned. And still there was nothing. No long forgotten dream. No broken hearts. No angry cries or demonizing chants. He stared at the space behind him. Three steps he had taken, and nothing had pursued.

He turned back to face the horizon and thought for a moment. What would he have done if something had come after him? He surely would not have waited for it to catch him. He would not fall before those demons again. He thought for a moment longer. He would not have stepped aside and let it pass. No, he would not let those awful nightmares guide the way again. He thought for a moment longer, then turned yet again to where he had come from.

If they had come, those cries and those terrors, those demons and those nightmares...if they had come again he would have run. They terrified him. They reminded him of who he was, what he was. They brought back ideas of the things he had done, and the things he had almost done. He kept staring back, thinking and waiting, waiting and thinking.

But nothing came to him. Nothing came for him or from him. He was simply there, alone. And in that moment, a smile grew upon his face. He would not be chased by demons, he would not be led by nightmares. The grin sighed into a quiet laugh, something simple to test the silence. The sound of his own happiness filled the area with noise. With happy, delightful noise. His grin grew and laughter poured from him. He took that noise and let it fill the silence. He let the sounds of joy elicit from him louder and louder bouts of laughter. His head shot back and the happiness burst from deep within him, flooding his senses and pouring out as far as he could hear.

He directed his laugh towards the way he had come, daring it to awaken some long forgotten beast, beseeching from that void any terror that would attempt to betray his undeniable happiness. He raised his hands in the air and bellowed deep from within in his chest. His laughter grew and changed. It held and stuck and evolved into a yell, a mighty yell which he hurled back at the home he had once been aprisoned within. His yell grew and grew! His noise rang, tried and true! He challenged all that was and forsook it for all that would soon be! He dared those demons to rise, he terrorized those nightmares with his call!

Come if you will! Come after me if you want! Trapped no more, lost no more! I am free of those days and free of you! I will turn away, looking back no more! I will leave you behind and behind you will stay! Now and forever! Forever and ever! For I am Free!

And he turned from those dark days. He spun on his heels and shot away. His legs pumped and his heart raced. His mind white with passion and his soul aloft in the breeze that passed by his hair. He ran and he ran. And for a moment, for a brief, insidious moment he thought he heard a whisper of wait, a hoarse halting to his sprint. He thought to stop and turn back the way he had come. He carried the idea with him for a moment, but the briefest moment it was out of all that he had spared. Never again would he turn back. Never again would he give them a moment of his time. He was free! Free of them, free of his past! Free to run and rest as he wished and free to laugh and yell his loudest!

No, for them, he had nothing. The next moment would be spent free. As would the next, and the following after that. He would not look back. He would not slow down. He...was free.

David.

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Subject:	Float On
Time:	6:57 pm.

Step by step and day by day I walk through this world of ours. I lift my feet, and place them down with thought of where I am going and where I have been. I pick up my pace when I feel the past come chasing after me, and I slow down when I find a reason to observe my terrain. I take my eyes away only when I find cause to leave my path and explore something, or someone, else. But when the time comes, and sometimes without proper reason, I always return to my trek and continue on my way. Sometimes I trip, and stumble, and fall to one knee. And sometimes that knee gives out and I find myself upon the ground. I may pound the earth with my tired hands, or I may lie there for a moment and consider whether or not I should rise again. But I do. I always do. I lift my head, struggle to my feet, and trudge on down that path. And sometimes the start is slow, and I wonder if continuing is what I really want. I look over my shoulder at where I had fallen, fearing and longing for that pause, that possible ending to this long, long walk of mine.

But I cannot stop there, alone, in the middle of my path. I cannot lie on that ground and watch as the clouds float on by while I hold my ground and bid them farewell. As they do, I too must float on. I must lift my feet, step by step, day after day, and walk through this world of ours. I must run from the past, and stagger when it catches up to me. I must take my time to observe the new land I see, and to share the road with those that will join me on it. I must wander to explore the unknown. And I must take time to lift another off the ground. And, sometimes, I must stay with them for a while and share my words. And share my memories. And share myself. If I were to stop this trek, if I were to sit down and let the world float on by me like those beautiful clouds, then I would miss out on so much. My longing to give up this path, to lie upon the ground, would be defeated by my longing to walk on.

And so I walk. Step by step, day by day. I live the life that I walk, and to follow the life that I live. To love those that I meet, even those that impede my progress. To understand the world that I wander, even the parts that leave me terrified and broken. To speed and to slow, to fall and to rise again. For one day, after one step, my path will end and I will be met with a clearing. A field it will be, beneath some clouds. With a small hill for me to climb, and to crest, and to sit atop and look out upon the land. And in that land will be those that I've met, those I have loved, those I have hated, and those that I may have forgotten. I will see them on their paths. I will see them walk, and I will see them run. I will see them fall and rise again. I will see them wander toward those that they wish, and away from those that they fear. I will see them lift others from the ground, and I will smile with that teary eyed smile that comes to me. And though my journey has ended, and though they may never see me on their paths again, I know that they will float on. They will take their path step by step, and day by day, until they reach a clearing of their own. Underneath those beautiful clouds.

David.

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Subject:	The Sun and the Shadows
Time:	3:45 pm.

The sun rises and shines down on the day. It creeps into the shadows, burning them with light. And the sun sets, fleeting from those shadows as they reclaim their land. The sun returns and pushes back the darkness, to slumber again and resign the fight. The shadows return to their hovels, only to rise again, charging through the night.

This battle is endless. It has been before time was time, and will rage until our time has ended. Honor and right pass between the two, the day and the night. The sun with its courage, with its conviction for enlightenment. The shadows with their cleverness and patience. A fight both know well, and an enemy they have sworn to defeat.

But I wonder, as I often do of these eternal things...do they know the battle that they are swept up in? Do they understand the time they've spent, and the time they will spend harboring some forgotten grudge? Is the land of the mortals worth the fight they passionately ensue? Perhaps they are as foolish as us. It may be that the struggle has lost meaning other than victory and pride. It may be that the sun burns brightly because it has done so for far too long, and the shadows plot because they have no notion of anything other.

Yet I do not like to think of these forces as so childish as we. I prefer to imagine a greater hope instilled in their intentions. I cling to the idea that the sun and the shadows perpetuate this feud for a reason beyond the minds of us mortals. Imagining that we are bereft of their wisdom and blind to their reason gives me hope that the battle is not so fruitlessly enacted, and that a greater victory lies within the struggle. For they must understand, those shadows and that sun, that their war is eternal. They must realize that while one wakes, the other must rest. They must know that during that rest they concede the land they fought for. And that retreat allows the enemy to thrive yet again.

And so I must wonder, for if my hopes are accurate, if the sun and the shadows understand the futility of their fight, why then do they continue and carry on again and again, day after day, night after night? But perhaps, I tell myself in my confusion, perhaps the victory is not what compels them to fight. For victory is a man made device, brought around to incite blood lust and glory. We are creatures that demand an end to our struggle, for we feel our endeavors require reward. But what reward could you give to the sun, one that burns so brightly and is beloved so heartedly? What reward could you give to the shadows, those that have mastered both calming serenity and alluring mystery? And to add to the coffer, they have life eternal to enjoy these luxuries. Without desire for the spoils of war, then the meaning of their fight cannot be sullied in gain.

Now, if reward does not drive the two, I must consider causes other than profit and gain. My mind then dredges up thoughts of pride. My mind places on the two personalities of greed and control. Yet, if I am to follow my hopes, if I am to view the sun and the shadows as something above petty ego, I know I cannot belay such commonalities unto them. The sun may fall to the earth and give way to the shadows, but it need not fear its own demise. It will rise again and set about as it always has. The shadows may be scoured from the land by the light that engulfs them, but they are never deposed. Even in the high noon hour they persist and plot, awaiting the moment in which they will return en masse. The sun will burn as brightly regardless of the shadows lying in wait. The shadows weave their magic without worry of the looming sun. One needs not fear the other, for the land will belong to each at the recompense of a little patience.

This is where I have hit my limit. My mortal mind cannot conceive of reasons beyond these as to why the sun and the shadows struggle for this land. I must acquit my attempts to understand, and suffice it to myself that their battle may be something other than battle. Us mortals can only see gain and loss, more and less. Perhaps they are without struggle and devoid of conflict. Perhaps the minds of the eternals are beyond, or maybe without, these limitations. This land is here, as are they. When one is absent, the other is present. When change is beckoned, change is made. No thought of desire, no place for ego. The two concede their homage at a time. Forever separate, yet indelibly entwined.

David.

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Subject:	The Fly
Time:	8:05 pm.

I sat with my eyes closed, listening to the silence of my room. Thinking of who’s and what’s, when’s and where’s, I lifted the glass towards my mouth and swallowed a mouthful of the bitter drink. Lowering it back down to the arm of the chair, I listened to the clink as it landed. And then I returned to my silence.

Briefly returned to my solitude, a short, quick buzz snapped my attention back to the room. My eyes opened slowly. An intruder had found its way into my room and I’ll be damned if I let it disturb my peace. I stared at the blank wall across the room and waited for the sound to reoccur. I waited for a moment or two as I scanned the room from left to right, then back again. I knew that it was not simply my imagination playing tricks, nor the intoxicating effects of the drink at hand. No, I had heard the buzz and would wait for the tiny culprit to present itself again. Growing impatient, I became bemused with the thought that perhaps the insect had sensed me as intently has I had sensed it. Maybe the fly was lying in wait for the large beast resting in the chair to lower his guard, so that it could take flight once more without giving its position away. At that point, it would find its freedom from this dreary place and return once more to the beauty of the outside. Alas, with no repeat of noise to tell tale of its position, I let my eyes close again and my mind drifted back to thoughts of the past.

Unperturbed, I raised the glass once more to my lips and tipped the drink into my mouth. However, before swallowing, the buzz came again, this time inching past my ear and retreating to the far corner of the room. My eyes shot open and I quickly downed the rum in my mouth. Setting the glass down on the table beside me, I rose from my chair and stood for a moment in silence as I recreated the event that just occurred. If my hearing was on par, and I like to think that it is, the fly would be somewhere across the room and to my left, near the bed or the waste basket. But I would wait. Yes, it had given its position away again, and I could spare another moment of my peace for the chance to dispose of this damned intruder.

I waited. And I swayed from the onset of drunkenness. And I waited some more. But the fly was an adept opponent at this game. It was as silent, and possibly even more still, than I at the moment, and my patience was growing thin. In order to win this game, I would have to employ some other tactic. Focusing on the moments that passed, I theorized that since it had only attempted its exploration when I had been sitting with my eyes closed, perhaps resuming my comfortable and nonthreatening position would lure it back into a sense of security. Less than gracefully, I landed back in my chair, readjusted myself to my earlier position, and closed my eyes. Yes, soon I would hear the telling buzz and be one step closer to triangulating its position in my airspace.

I calmed my breathing to little more than the visible rise and fall of my chest. And I steadied my muscles to prevent as much movement as possible. But, dammit, nothing happened. I waited, it waited. The longer the silence persisted, the more angered I became. Eyes still closed, I reached for my glass again, hoping that a sip would cool my rising temper. Upon clumsily touching my fingers to the glass, I heard it again. A quick buzz from the general area I had figured before; somewhere near my waste basket. My eyes opened and focused on the area as quickly as the sound had reached my ears, but to no avail. The bastard was clever, I would give him that. But I would not be outsmarted by an insect. I rose as quickly as I could from the chair and stumbled over to the waste basket in the corner of my room. Giving it a sharp jab with my toe, I stood poised, ready to react should it come flying out from the litter. When nothing came I gave the basket an even sharper jab from my toe, followed by a short cry as my toe banged loudly off the side of the basket. Exasperated at the lack of buzzing from my assault on the enemy’s hiding place, I turned away from the basket and headed back towards my chair, back to my glass, favoring my slightly injured toe.

Taking advantage of my retreat, I heard the fly buzz from deep within the waste basket and shoot out. I turned in time to see a black dot dart quickly past my nose and away. Vowing never to lose sight of my foe again, I chased after him with more speed and dexterity than I thought possibly in this late hour. I followed it over my bed, climbing and clearing the mattress in two strides. I followed it across the room, passing my chair and table. The fly raced towards the opposing wall then abruptly shot straight up towards the ceiling in order to avoid collision. Amazed at its calculated motion, I lost focus of my own speed as my eyes, intent on their target, followed its sharp turn. More maneuverable and less inebriated, its expert movements outshined my own as I crashed nose first into the wall.

Swearing loudly I turned from the wall and tripped over my own twisting feet. I fell to my knees with a thud so loud it made my legs quiver. I used one arm to prop myself up as the other inspected my nose for blood. Luckily, my pride took more damage in the exchange, but that did nothing to disperse my growing aggravation. Looking down I saw the remnants of a bill lying on the carpet. I quickly grabbed the papers and rose to my feet. Struggling to hold balance on my rise, I righted myself and sought after my opponent. Perhaps frightened by the chase, or perhaps taunting me indignantly, the fly was circling the room again and again, echoing its buzz off the walls as if trumpeting its triumph. Following the erratic course of the fly with my eyes, I rolled up the papers I had gathered into a usable weapon. This fly had invaded my space, disturbed my peace, caused me pain and humiliation, and was now buzzing his damn buzz all over my room. I would end this now.

I leapt into the path of the fly, swinging my make-shift club as if wielding a fine sword. With each expert slash and swipe I provided, the fly deftly avoided my attacks. Understanding that my opponent was skilled in the art of rolled paper, I gave in to my animal instincts and removed all thoughts of tact and caution. I began wildly swinging the rolled papers. If I could not at least strike him down with brute force and luck, then at least I could tire him out. Yes, I thought to myself. Such tiny wings and so many unplanned course corrections would surely drain it of all its arrogant energy. And so I swung again and again. Sweat began to bead on my brow, but still I cut the air with my weapon. My shoulder began to ache, but still I challenged the life of my airborne enemy. Short, ragged breaths began to escape me, but still I refused to be bested by a fly!

Yelling in anger, spent by my own frustrations, I gave one final swing of my weapon. And, for a mere instant, the click of contact between bug and paper ceased the buzzing that echoed around the room. But that instant of victory was soon replaced as my grip, loosened by sweat and exhaustion, released just enough to send the rolled papers flying. They arched threw the air, twirling end over end, and slammed squarely into my glass that still rested on the table. The glass teetered, and I raced to catch it before gravity claimed my rum. But I was too late. My hand was only capable of catching a small portion of the drink as it spilled over the side of the table on to the carpet below. Breathing a sigh of unrest, I righted the glass, unrolled the papers, and used them to sop up what I could of the rum. Sitting on my knees beside the table, staring at the empty glass, I thought for a moment of the events that just transgressed. I rose to my feet and wiped my wet hands on my pants. Taking a deep breath I turned to see if I could find the carcass of my foe, the fly.

However, before I could even begin my search, a short buzz by my ear sent chills down my spine. I turned back towards the table and witnessed my opponent walk to the edge of the spilled rum, and take a small sip. This fly, this unearthly, immortal, genius fly had survived a direct hit and was now savoring my rum as if he had earned it in victory. A brief flash of rage coursed through me as I watched him. After all that had happened, after all my efforts to return peace to my small world and to enjoy my small joy, I was now watching as this small harbinger claimed victory to his small spoils. And, as quickly as rage cascaded over me, it disappeared. Everything seemed so…small.

Without thinking about it, I lifted the empty glass off the table, turned it upside down, and set it gently down over the fly. He lifted from the rum, buzzed quickly around the glass twice, then landed again at the rum, seeming to care more for the drink than he did his entrapment. I took the driest piece of paper I could find from the wet pile, and slide it slowly under the glass until it completely separated the fly from the table. Lifting the entire enclosure, the fly panicked for a moment and buzzed wildly about the glass. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he’s more worried about losing the rum than he is about being trapped. In which case I would be doing him a favor. That stuff can’t be any good for him. I walked over to the window on the far side of the room, carefully pulled it open with the sides of my occupied hands, and felt the cold breeze as it entered my room. I raised the glass to my eyes once more and looked at the prisoner inside. No longer buzzing in terror, the fly stood without the slightest movement on the paper door of his cage. If I had not already known the prowess of this small insect, I would have considered him dead. But I was wise to his abilities. I afforded him a brief smile, and separated the paper from the glass. The fly rose from the paper, circled a moment in the air, and darted quickly into the coldness outside.

I shut the window, stood for a moment and considered, again, how small everything now seemed. With a deep breath, I left the window and returned the glass to the table beside my chair. Caring little for the spill or the peace I once had, and caring even less for the thoughts that had occupied my mind ten minutes ago, I felt that the night had come to an end. I turned off the light, crawled into my bed, and let the silence take me away into a peace all of its own.

David.

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Time:

7:39 pm.

He slide the bud into his ears and pressed play. The world came alive. His feet began to tap steadily on the ground. His fingers tapped out the beat. His head bobbed and rocked. The music passed through him. The music became the loudest, brightest thing he knew. He forgot about the people that he knew, and he forgot about the things he had seen. He forgot about his money or the expenses that required it. He forgot and he forgot and he forgot. And soon all was noise. His surroundings, his body, his mind, all was noise, and all the noise was beautiful. And so he danced.

He started slow, rocking his hips, swaying his shoulders, and lightly moving his feet. He did not need to pace the music, nor to decipher it. He wished not to understand the words when there were words, and he cared little for the intentions of the artists that pulsed through him. All was music and music was all. His feet bounced faster, mapping out the rhythm that gifted him. His shoulders spun and flexed, tensing their muscles and loosening their grip in time with the 1, 2, 3, 4s that beckoned him. His hips begun to twist and turn, to slide and dip. His whole body began to rock as the cacophony of symphony enthralled him, lured him, and trapped him within the lovely siren call.

His pace picked up. His tempo and his speed rose. His heart beat in time with the thump-d'thumps and his mind quivered in ecstacy. He had given control to the sounds that filled him. His whole body responded. He lived for the next note. When it came his mind lit afire and longed another. And another. And yet another. More and more the music poured into him, through him, and out his body. And he was dancing. He lost himself. He was no longer him, and the music was no longer music. He had fallen into her and she had filled him. The duet mixed, and melded into one being. One force, one mind, one soul, and oh how he loved it. How he loved her and all that she could do to him. Her simple tones, her rises and her valleys. He felt her against him and moved the way she had wanted. All had been given over to her and he knew not why he had ever cared for anything other than her.

His body worshiped her and her magic. He spun and slid, rocked and rolled, twisted and turned. He muscles began to ache, but he felt nothing but her need. His heart raced but each beat it presented fell in line with the next she had to offer. His breath became short, yet he only longed to breath her in deeper. He had lost himself to his lover, to his music.

Then his twist, or maybe it was his turn...it was too harsh. It pulled taunt on the line that connected them. She had popped out of his ears, and his everything fell silent. The world returned as the buds fell to the floor. The drab silence flooded his sense and the weakness of his exerted body over took him in the brief chance for reprise. He was tired and sore, and his world was quiet and loveless. He was alone. The thoughts returned, and the memories flooded back. His mind raced as he asked himself again and again of what he would do next. Nothing is the same, and nothing would ever be the same again. The world had returned. And she had left. His feet stopped, his hips held their place and his shoulders slacked. The only knowledge he had left of him and his love affair was the exhaustion that now racked him. Nothing would ever be the same again.

David.

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Time:

6:18 pm.

He looked in the mirror and saw his eyes staring back at him. The same eyes he knew when he was younger, the same intense stare he had when he used to piece together the random bits of world he had witnessed. Those eyes had seen so much before, and so much more after that. And here they looked back at him. That looked through him as he had looked through so many others. digging for reason, examining purpose. Those eyes broke into the minds of those that passed, measuring their weight on how deeply they looked inside of him. The quick flashes, the avoidant glances, the eyes of the weak. The penetrating, provoking glares and long kept interests of the strong. He could find the worth of a man in a matter of moments, in a calculation of attention. Subtle clues that his eyes could decipher from the multitude of distractions that afronted them.

And now they peered deep within him. He did not look away. He stared down his own reflection and afforded himself the comfort of strength. He knew that deep within him lurked the soul a great man. And yet he was not convinced. He had seen weakness before, in himself. He had felt the tremors of fear and the weight of sadness. He had succumbed to raging anger and played cruel games with use of intuition. He knew there was weakness inside of him, yet ideas of strength still persisted.

How could this be? How could he house both weakness and strength? How could his eyes read one thing, yet his experience understand another? He would not admit tohimself they his body allowed the existence of both. No, be both strong and weak would mean that his eyes could be deceived. And if his eyes has the faulty faculty of misreading the signs he had spent his life judging, then how strong could his stare be? To accept mistakes in his visionary prowess would be to accept the chance that those he had judged in the past...the weak and the strong could have been misjudged. Could he have written off strength if he had only seen weakness? Could he have trusted the weak when in truth they had weakness lying withing them?

No, no. Strength and weakness were two serpate entities, found in two different vessels. There were the strong, with whom he had sided himself, and there were the weak, those who he had either dismissed or abused. Two types of people, two types of lives. The strong and the weak.

Yet here he was. He held the gaze which he respected. He never once broke his own stare, not a blink nor a sidelong glance. This was the sign of a strong man. It had to be. This idea had sufficed to guide him through out his life and would not be tossed aside when here he had proof that he himself contained the same worth he marked in various others. However...however he knew what was inside of him. His gze did not waiver, yet his soul did. To call himself a strong man pushed his memories to the side, but his memories pushed back.

A strong man would not have done the things he had done. A strong man would have said the things he had seen. And a strong man would not believe the things he had believed. The crimes he had committed, the lies he had spoken, the garbage he treasured. He had been a fool in his past. He had used and broken others. He had taken that which was not his and gave nothing in return but a hollow smile and a soothing tongue. He had spread word that the way to greatness is to stay on the path of strength! He had claimed that the worth of a man can be measured by the stare he is able to hold! He passionately and stubbornly explained to the world that his own knowledge, his own, could see the amount of strength, or the building weakness that one possessed!

And he was wrong. These days, these short, fleeting days. These nights, these long, cold nights. He spent it now looking into his reflection, for hopes that there he could find the strength he no longer felt. He wished to find the greatness that he had convinced himself of having for years. He attempted to discover his courage and begged to recognize his passion. He stared deeply into himself and hoped.

He rose his hand and placed it against the mirror, letting the cool surface encourage him to remain. But his eyes watered. They begun to sting, to redden at the tips. His attention began to waiver, flashing with memories of the dreams and hearts he had broken. His faced trembled slightly, heavy under the gaze he was so determined to keep. He placed his other hand on the mirror and leaned closer, peering deeper, struggling more intently to hold the stare that promised strength. He was strong and courageous. He was powerful and distinguished. He was strong. He had strength!

Still, the memories flashed. And still his attention waivered. His watery eyes began to lower. The things he had done showed the weakness of his intentions. The things he had said showed the weakness of his character. The things he had believed showed the weakness of his convictions. He was weak. His eyes closed. He was weak. Tears coursed down his cheek as a low moan escaped his throat. His head lowered, ashamed that he could not hold the stare of the man in the mirror. His hands fell from the mirror and swung gently at his sides. He was weak. He was as weak as he had always feared.

David.

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