This Is Letting Go

Her body is nearly limp; her breathing is faint. My arms tremble as I struggle to hold her weight. When I first lifted her, I was confident that I could carry her all the way. I could save her. The walk was longer than anticipated. Turns out I wasn't as strong as I thought. I don't have strength for two. Not for much longer. My arms continue to weaken and the angry red stain on her shirt continues to grow. I'm running out of time.

"Help me!" I said, bursting through the door. 

He turned from his work and set his glasses on his nose. He lifted her shirt to reveal the deep gash across her stomach.

"I'm scared she's gonna die." I fought to keep my voice level. "I don't know what to do anymore; tell me what to do so I can save her."

"I'm going to have to work on her," He said after a moment's silence. He reached out to remove her from my arms.

I flinched.

"Just.. just tell me what I need to do." My voice wavered. My legs shook as I stood before him, the pain was becoming evident on my face.

He reached out again. 

"Give her to me," He said softly.

Time seemed to drain like the blood from her side. My pride or her life.

I passed her over to him and he carefully laid her unconscious body on the table. I slumped down the wall to the floor as exhaustion overcame me. I listened to the tools being prepared and organized. Suddenly I was lifted to my feet.

"I need you to step outside while I do this." His eyes peered into the storm of my soul as a wave of helplessness threatened to sweep me off my feet.

"How long will it take?" I managed. "Will she make it?"

The firmness of the grip on my shoulders settled my reeling emotions and put my deepening fear to rest.

"Trust me."

I could feel confidence returning to my feet as I made my way to the door. I gazed over my shoulder at her once more. He was already beginning to work; I could see color returning to her face.

I heard his voice once more as I hit the door.

"Remember the day I carried you in here?"

I lifted my shirt and traced the long scar across my stomach with my finger. I remembered now. My faith in His hands was strengthened once again.

Clarity

I never had career goals or ambitions or anything like that. I don't know what I want to pursue as a career. But I did aspire to be a world champion martial artist. Now maybe I'm not world champion material, but I can still be an artist. I can create art with my movements, I can create art with my camera, I can create art with my words. If being an artist means seeing the world the way other people don't or appreciating what other people miss and then expressing myself the way no one else can, then that's what I want to be.

Flatline

The doctors burst into the emergency room. This is critical. No vitals, no signs of life. Revive him. 

"Clear!"

Shock him, spark him, bring him back to life. We can't lose him. Flurry of motion and activity, hard work and undivided attention.

The monitor beeps slowly, rhythmically; the green lines on the screen spike upwards with methodic regularity. Eyes closed, breathing faintly. 

They used to visit him, huddled around the bed holding hands, wishing for his recovery, praying for his return. As the days grew in number so the hopefuls dwindled in their expectations; the visits became less frequent. The monitor is the only sound, the only sign of life. The blips on the monitor are just as reluctant to acknowledge his presence as the visitors.

The lack of movement begins to eat away at his skin. The world has left him behind; the constant movement of everything outside overtakes the stillness in the room as he slowly fades away. The dust falls undisturbed on the bed. The monitor continues to beep faithfully, faintly.

The blinking cursor sneers at me. The empty page hits me in the face. Nothing. I've got nothing. They come and then they go, passing through my mind without leaving a trace of inspiration. Nothing sticks, nothing stays. The orphanage is empty. Left alone with my incoherent thoughts. The floor is a mess of misplaced creativity, lack of skill, oppressive emotions and withering motivation.

I can't keep my eyes on the page; movement outside the window, voices in the hall, all calling me, beckoning me, urging me to bury my dead on move on. The monitor seems smaller than it did before. The lifelessness of the room is stifling. I shake off the dust and abandon my post. 

The monitor sounds once more, this time a single, sustained note.

Torn

This is a sickness. This is an illness that weakens the body and churns the stomach; the cause of many a listless day and sleepless night.

This is a drug. This is an addiction, producing irrational habits, hallucinations, distorting sight and warping the mind.

This is the friend that takes me home when I'm wasted, nourishes me back to health when I'm hurting, talks me through my deepening darkness, removing the bullets from the gun.

This is light and dark, night and day. This is my passion and hope; this is my weakness and my downfall.

Watch and Learn

Imagine an artist. 

He sits on a bench in a courtyard. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak. He simply watches. The sky, the birds, the flowers, dogs barking, people walking, cars driving, trains moving. He just watches.

And then he goes home. He takes all that he's seen and heard and tasted and felt with him back to his workshop. He clears the table and prepares his tools, arming himself with a new canvas, a fresh brush and a clear mind. A clean slate. He constructs an image, a replication of these things that he observed from his day, from his point of view. This image, this representation of his experie
nce from that day or sometimes from previous days, this creation draws out the often overlooked beauty of the mundane, the routine, the ordinary. This image--part reality, part personality--exposes the viewer to wonders previously unseen and never before considered and invites the viewer to participate in the artist's experience.

Oftentimes the artist is credited with skill in painting or drawing or sculpting. While this is usually true, this is not his primary strength. His strength is in his eyes, his ears, his feelings. His thoughts. His perception. He sees what you don't. He sees what you won't.

This is what I try to do. I observe. I think. I write. This is my canvas.

This sitting back and watching thing.. It's a double-edged sword. It's good to be able to observe things and see the beauty in simplicity and discover things that other people miss. It's also terrible because this also tends to be my approach for the rest of my life: sit back, watch it happen and hope for the best. I like blame this on my reserved personality but in reality it's just a bad habit that I've accepted as part of who I am. 

Right now I'm taking a class on article writing, and this class is pushing me to step outside of that "observing from afar" deal that I'm comfortable with and take steps be proactive and actually "get a story." I can look at something and make observations about it; that's easy. For example, have you ever noticed the way a person walks? Even if it's not a pronounced gait or limp? I pride myself on being able to pick out a friend in a crowd simply by the way they walk. I've seen enough people walking in my life and paid attention enough to recognize a certain stride and pace when I see it, even from a distance. That's just me observing. However, going out and engaging with people and 'making' a story is a whole new ballgame for me. It's still observing and writing, it's just more involving and engaging. This casual observation versus active participation in observation is sort of a personality clash for me. "It's not who I am." And it doesn't have to be. I can live with that.

It's a skill worth learning. And I intend on learning this skill, expanding horizons and broadening my experiences. At the end of the day, it still comes down to seeing, hearing, thinking, and then writing. That's what I want to do, that's what I like to do. And the more mediums I get to do that in, the better.

The perceptive artist in his workshop, the seasoned journalist in the field, the ambitious college student writing and producing from his garage. It's all art. Expression. Observation.

Gotta start somewhere.

Waves

It's a funny feeling the first time something really hits you. Really hits you. It's like the floodgates have opened and the words begin to flow and you drop whatever you happen to be doing and just go with it. It's like being swept off your feet by a wave you never saw coming. You find yourself riding this wave, this surge of inspiration and momentum and you don't care where it takes you or where you'll end up. You simply let it run its course and take you where it wills. And when it finally sets you back on your feet in the sand, or lying belly-up in the surf, you look at this mess you've made and the ripples you've created and you feel amazing, exhilarated, and accomplished.

Standing there on the beach, trying to figure out what the heck just happened. Lost in the moment, lost in the thrill, acting on instinct, not thinking, just doing, just moving, going, feeling. Feeling.

And then you spend the rest of the day, or for some, the rest of your life wadding into the surf, paddling through the fire and foam, braving the incoming tide, searching for that perfect wave, for the next experience, for that feeling. To make that feeling become a reality again. You'll do whatever it takes to find it. Because there's really nothing quite like it.

You can't explain it. But you want it. You'll do anything to find it. And once you get it, you never let it go.

QOTD 3

"When you meet an extraordinary person, it’s like they get inside you, under your ribs, and shuffle everything inside you around until they find space for greatness to grow. But extraordinary people always get away. And when they leave, they take that little part of you with them. Suddenly you find yourself with a gap in your chest that you don’t know how to live with. Suddenly you’re frightened of being yourself without them..." - Nick Ellsworth

Happy Medium?

Is there such a thing as a "happy medium"? Is everything simply divided into black and white? Can I find a happy medium for myself? Can I find that fine line between being on and off? Being on track and being way off the mark? Being hot and cold? Being high one day and so low the next? Being dedicated and motivated one day, and listless and depressed the next? Can I just be a decent person? Can I be someone better? Not a complete jerk but not a stiff, unrealistic goodie two-shoes either? Can I just do what I set out to do without all the extra nonsense and fluff and filler? Do I really have to jump through all of these hoops? Can I just do me and leave out all the rest?

Can I just get a happy medium with a side of fries and get on with my life?

How to Do Mostly Nothing for Twenty Years

"Comfortable misery." Oxymoron right? How is it possible to be comfortable (something most people want and strive for) yet miserable or uncomfortable (something most people try to avoid) at the same time?

"It is like old, comfortable shoes. They are not attractive, but you keep wearing them out of habit. If you bought new ones, you would have to break them in. What if they pinched? What if they hurt? What if you didn’t like them? Better to just stay with what you have. Why take a chance?"

Think about it. How many times have I been okay and familiar with surroundings or circumstances or people or habits but wasn't nearly happy about it or simply hated it? Worst part - because I was 'comfortable' with it, I was in no hurry to take the necessary steps to change something.

Why do I do this? Why do I insist on being comfortably miserable? Why am I okay with being unhappy in my own little bubble when I can enjoy life if I just step outside its walls? Why am I okay to surrender to my fears and doubts? Why do I choose to live in this cage? Why do you?

Misery loves company, yes? Who wants to be unhappy by themselves? It's much easier to be unhappy with other people who feel the same or circumstances that never change. I can be miserable and unhappy right where I am and hold on to these certain things that make me unhappy because I know they're not going anywhere anytime soon.. because I'm not about to do anything to change it. If I had to write a book about my life up to this point, my autobiography would be titled something like "How to Do Mostly Nothing for Twenty Years." A fairly accurate title unfortunately. What would the title of your autobiography be?

The few times I have been willing to burst my own bubble and step out of my comfort zone has been so worth it, every single time. I took a huge step out of my comfort-zone this summer and absolutely loved it. This fear of change, of something different and unknown (especially for us reserved, less-adventures types) holds us back and ties us down. Unhappy enough to want change, but not enough discomfort to do anything about it. That's a terrible way to live really. Yet I do it. Many of us do.

I'm not here to solve problems or deliver answers. Those don't come to me right away. Sometimes simply raising the question is enough. "Why do I do what I do?" I've put a bit of thought into these here questions. I hope you do too.

QOTD #2

"You are the only one who can use your gifts. That is a huge responsibility."

Think about it.

Ashton Kutcher's Speech at TCA

Speaks for itself. Listen and learn.

Quote of the Day - August 13th

"Being angry is easy. It's easy to find fodder to make you angrier; it's easy to find things that will help fuel your rage. Being sad is also easy because people won't necessarily go out of their way to cheer you up. Being happy is f***ing difficult." - Max Scoville

My Dream

I want to make art. I want to write. I want to write something beautiful, something powerful, something epic.

I want to create a world that no one has ever seen before; I want to send on you a journey you'll never forget. I want to stretch your imagination, make your mind soar and let your eyes really see.

I want to write something that sticks with you, that makes you think, that causes you to change the way you see and feel. I want you to ponder and wonder and work out your thoughts. I want you to really sit down and think.

I want to make a person, create a character that you can believe in, that you can identify with, that you can root for, that you can know and love. I want to put you in his shoes, to follow in his steps, to ride the emotional rollercoaster with him. I want to make you laugh and cry, make you love and hate. I want you to rejoice in his victories and mourn his losses. I want you to wish this character was real. 

When you finish reading, I want you feel like you've been gone for ages; I want coming back to reality to be a difficult task. Whenever your eyes read these words, I want you to travel through time and space, across oceans and through galaxies, to alternate universes and places that have to be invented or discovered.

I want you to feel. I want you to understand. I want you to experience. I want you to know. That's all I want.

Before you dive in, before you enter the gates, before you turn the first page, I have to write it. I have to build, I have to try to construct and erect this masterpiece. I have to create this world, these experiences, these people for you to interact with, to explore, to bond. It has to be spotless, flawless, refined and perfected over and over again. 

This could take months, years, a lifetime. This won't be easy. The mind is not easily persuaded nor entertained by the words on a page. But this is what I want. This is what I want to do. This is my goal. This is my dream.

This could take a while. 

Caged

The rough metal of the rusty shackles chaffs my wrists; I tried to adjust my arms to a more comfortable position to reduce the irritation. The rats scurried beneath my feet; I stopped giving them notice a long time ago. I've been in here for far too long.

The key. It grows warmer by the minute as I clutch it in my hands. I have the key. I have the power to end my suffering, to break free of these shackles. But I remain in this cage. I can't move, I can't grow, I can't progress. Yet, I am still here.

Why? Why am I here? What kind of person rots away behind bars when the answer lies before him? I can be free of my chains, free of this bondage, free of these limitations and actually live life.

But who knows what lies in wait for me, outside of these cold metal bars that I have grown to accustomed to? Outside of the four corners of my cell that have become ingrained in my soul? What sort of dangers and challenges await me, lying in dark shadows, waiting to tear me limb from limb when I least expect it? At least in my cage, I am safe, I am fed, I am familiar. Out there, who knows?

I look down at my hands and my feet; I see the scars, I see the imperfections, the shortcomings. I doubt myself because I know myself, I know my sins, I know my fears and failures. I see my flaws and limitations as I compare myself to others. I can't see the end of road. I don't know. I don't know what happens next. I'm not ready to step up to the plate. I'd rather be safe in my cage than brave the dangers of the unknown outside of the bars.

So I wear these chains.

"Fear does not stop death. It stops life."

Yellow Belt

I tightened the yellow belt around my waist for the umpteenth time. It's not that hard, I kept telling myself. I had practiced for weeks and this was the most basic form I could do. It's not that hard. But I was nervous. I was so nervous. It's kind of like performing right? I had done that many times before. But this was different, this was new. I had never done anything like this before. Not even six months into the program and I was already competing. What was I doing here? I only signed up because my brother had, and it didn't look that hard when he was doing it. But I was here now, and I was going to do it.

They called my division. Sweaty hands, cold feet. The air condition was suddenly too high and my belt too loose. Tightened it again.  Mind raced through the twenty-move form again. What if I forgot my form? What if I messed up? What if? They gave us the order; I was near the rear of a division of about nine boys my age and belt rank.

Sitting on the hard carpet watching other competitors do their forms. The orange belts did much more advanced forms with harder kicks. The little confidence I had left evaporated; I was going to lose. Better moves, higher difficulty; I'm done. Why bother trying?

It wasn't some martial artist creed that I suddenly remembered. It wasn't an encouraging word from an instructor or fellow student. I don't know what it was. I stood on the edge of the ring, trying to decide whether it was worth it to potentially embarrass myself in front of three mean-looking blackbelt judges and a whole crowd spectators to try to get this win. I am about to look like the biggest idiot right now..

I'm pretty sure my heartbeat was audible as I presented myself to the judges. Must've looked like a deer in the headlights. I gathered myself as I was about to begin. I'm here, now. It's not that hard. Might as well give it a shot. I turned into the first downblock and yelled as loud as I could... The rest was a blur. I bowed to conclude my form to the thunderous applause of everybody watching. Still wore the same shocked look on my face as I received my score, and then the first-place trophy.

I don't remember anything else from that tournament, nearly seven years ago. I do remember those few moments of terror and triumph. I learned something that day. I didn't have to beat those other kids. I didn't have to outkick or outpunch a bunch of superior orange belts. I had to beat me. I had to beat my own fear and doubts. When I took my stand in the ring, it was just me. No coaches, no judges, no opponents. Just me and the mat.  I have to beat me before I beat you.

Abandoned

Sometimes my mind is like an orphanage, or a children's home. An home for abandoned ideas. All just floating around, milling about aimlessly, waiting for someone, for me, to pick them up and make them my own. I go visit sometimes, but like everybody else, I don't have the heart to stick around, to develop them, to take them home. It's pretty sad. And every day it grows. A bright, young, promising little idea walks in those doors dejected and abused because I didn't have the time or the will to grow him up. And so the cycle continues. Every day I make an attempt to bring one of those precious little ideas into the light, five more are pushed into the dark regions of my mind where nobody can see them, to rot and grow stale. Every time I write, that's one child lucky enough to see the light of day. The rest remain, some to never be seen or heard from again. I can't save them all.

Take A Walk

Walking. We do it everyday. The vast majority of us anyway. It's pretty much the most basic form of movement for humans. Walking. Some of us walk much further than others. Some of us walk because we have to, because we have no other way of getting to where we need to go. But when was the last time you walked for the sake of walking?

According to health research and such, walking is supposed to be really good for your health. I'm not going to throw numbers at you, but walking consistently as exercise can lower blood pressure, lower risk for heart disease, increase muscle and bone strength, blah blah blah. Walking is great because literally any able-bodied person can do it. 

Walking is good for mental health too. I discovered this for myself one night last summer when I took a two-hour stroll around the neighborhood to keep myself from punching walls out of frustration. You can read online all the stats about how walking is good for both mind and body, but have you ever taken a walk when you should be pulling out your hair? People don't tell you to "walk it off" for nothing. And it's not just beneficial when you feel like rage-quitting Call of Duty or stressing out over money problems. Anytime is a good time to walk. I like to walk simply to assess what happened during my day and how I can improve upon tomorrow. Walking seems to unlock levels in the mind that you didn't know you had. And you always feel better afterwards, whether you were able to create a solution for world peace or not.

Try this. Wake up early one morning, before it gets too hot. Or wait until evening if you're not a morning person like myself. Put on your shoes, step onto the street and start walking. Simple as that. Go to a park if your neighborhood isn't the greatest or take a buddy with you. Walking for fifteen to thirty minutes a day will do wonders for you in terms of stress relief, mood, heart health and thinking clearly. Turn off the tv, log off Facebook, turn off the phone and go for a walk. The world will still be here when you get back, I promise. Try taking a notepad with you, jot down your thoughts as they come to you. Or simply enjoy being being outdoors for a few minutes. Something about being outdoors is just so freeing; sometimes I honestly feel trapped and uptight when I'm indoors.

Whatever your reason is for walking, it doesn't really matter. Just walk. It works. For me, sometimes walking is the only way to keep my head on straight. And that's okay. On those days when life punches you in the face, rub some ice cream on it and walk it off. Or even if things are dandy, take a walk. Walk, walk, walk.

Coming Home

Welcome back.

Yes, I did leave for a bit. Mentally. I couldn't do it. Then realized I couldn't stay away. I want to give this another shot but I don't know where to start. The words are there, the ideas are there; they're just really jumbled and tangled and confused. Give me a few days to organize my thoughts, rethink things, clean house. Things are always easier for me when thoughts are clear and on point. If not for the sake of good writing, then just for my own mental health. I know, I ran away from home when things got tough but now I'm back. Defeated and ashamed maybe, but I'm here. Starting over.

Forgotten But Not Gone

I had passed there it on the shelf countless times before, not giving it a second thought. Why I did a double-take and stopped in my tracks now, I don't know. Maybe it was the realization that this, which used to by my pride and joy, had been reduced to free housing for dust and cobwebs. 

I blew the dust away, Indiana Jones style. Its colors had faded long ago, rust was present on the edges. I  fingered it for the first time in a long time; it was amazing how something so familiar could feel so strange. It felt so off and awkward in my hands, I almost forgot how to use it. It was definitely going to need some work before it could see the light of day.

Why did I stop? Why did I put it on the shelf in the first place? What was so bad that I gave this up and forgot everything I had put into it to make it what it was? Sure I had nicked fingers, created bruises and scratched myself using this, but wounds will heal. The experiences and the memories were worth the pain. The satisfaction of successfully wielding this was lost. Suddenly, it mattered. It was no longer cold; it was warm from holding it so tightly, and the name was even visible on the front. It felt alive in my hands, awakened from its dark coma. A smile crept across my lips.

Forgive Me

I haven't been on here in a while, I know. I'm done with this, at least for a while. Feel like I'm wasting my time (something that I don't have alot of right now) and blowing alot of hot air. Wasn't like it was going anywhere either. I gave it a shot. I'm neither blogger nor writer. The multitude of thoughts and ideas inside my head that didn't make it on the page won't be missed; nobody knows except for me. Maintaining a good blog is hard work and I'm clearly not up to the challenge. Am I giving up? Yes. For now, maybe. I can write just as well for myself without disappointing a bunch of people who are expecting consistently good content at regular intervals. If you're one of the five people who actually read my stuff, I'm sorry. This is it. 

Forgive me.

Challenging Myself

The major purpose of this blog is to be a medium through which I can improve myself as a writer. Speaking of consistency (previous post), I'm making the effort to be a more consistent writer. Therefore, I'm going to challenge myself in several different ways to stretch myself as a writer. None of these will be perfect attempts, most of them will probably be pretty sketch but I'm still learning. I think if you and I can stick out this learning phase, everybody will benefit; I know I will.

So I noticed some things about my writing that could use some tweaking (I've been doing some heavy noticing lately). First of all, I tend to be really sober and rather dark when I write. Probably because I find it easiest to transpose my serious thoughts into paper. I also find that being really sober is the easiest way to create emotion in my writing. For example, whenever I try to portray emotion in a piece, nine times out of ten, that piece deals with some kind of death. I'm not obsessed with death by any means, but when I write, it comes out alot. Maybe I should change that. Maybe I should leave it. 

That brings up the first challenge I'm issuing myself: find a different way to create emotion. Let's have a piece where nobody dies. As easy as that sounds, its not. Not for me. That's why its a challenge. 

Challenge number two: Point of view. I tend to write in the first person alot. Third person occasionally, but mostly first person. The challenge? Write a piece in the SECOND person. It'll be weird for sure, but I'm determined to take you, the reader, on a journey you never thought you would take. We'll see how that goes..

Challenge number three: Write a piece about a significant event in my life. Why? First of all because my professor said it was a good idea. Second, because it'll challenge me to paint an accurate picture of what happened. I know what happened; I was there, I lived it. But I need you to feel and see and hear  the same things I did. That's the challenge. And lastly because, if it's an event worth remembering, then it's one worth writing about. Even if it's just for me.

So yeah, that's all I've got. If you got any other creative writing exercises for me to try let me know. Comment on the Facebook page or directly on the post. Or you can email me if you really want to. I'm posting all the links and such at the bottom of this post. I have no timeframe or any idea when I'll get around to these challenges, but I'll have you know that I'm working on them mentally all the time. Keep your eyes open and you might see these challenges within some of my upcoming posts. 

One more thing, I've gotten some good feedback on the little bit of Sci-Fi work I've slapped on here. I still have six more weeks in the Sci-Fi class so there will be a few more of those popping up (assuming I don't completely bomb the assignment). After the course is over, I might continue the sci-fi thing. I never really put much thought into it before the class but now I really enjoy it. Whether I'm any good at it only time will tell. But I'm learning. 

Thanks for reading and supporting; really puts the wind in my sails. Keep it up!

BrainsOnThePage/Facebook.com

My email --> Jordyw713@yahoo.com

Consistency

Definition

1) steadfast adherence to the same principles, course, form

2) agreement, harmony, or uniformity among the parts of a complex thing

Something that I've noticed about myself that needs to change. I am an erratic person. I'm not consistent. I'm not consistent in my personality, my emotions, my habits, my work ethic.. It's not good. Being two different people is not only hard to do, it's very taxing. I can't do it and I shouldn't be doing it at all. My inconsistency includes small things like feeling great one day and awful the next, to the two very different sides of myself, to the drastic fluctuation of my level of productivity, depending on the setting.

Example: At school, I'm not a great student. I put in the work, I study, I do my homework just like everybody else. I get decent grades, nothing special; I do what I have to do. At home, exact opposite. There's nothing due so I do nothing. Eat, sleep and video games. I don't do squat. And it's awful. Partly because I'm exhausted when I get home and partly because I'm really good at doing nothing. 

Character should not be swayed by circumstances or situation. Situations will always change, but I should not. My surroundings should not determine or sway the way I act or how I feel. Self-improvement, self-discipline, excellence, integrity - these aren't things you do for one day and then call it a night; it's continuous, ongoing, a part of who you are. To be successful, I must be consistent; to achieve goals, I must be consistent; to better myself, I must be consistent; to be happy, I must be consistent. I want to be one person, the same person, no matter what goes down. That's the goal.

Baby steps.

Ten things about consistency:

1. Consistency creates momentum.
2. Consistency is a habit that can be practiced and learnt.
3. Consistency breeds credibility.
4. The person who takes action every single day toward the attainment of their goal will always triumph over those who do it every once in a while. Always.
5. Many think consistency is purely a matter of willpower, and that people who are consistent have some kind of special ability to endure. Not true.
6. Surprisingly, doing something every day or nearly every day is actually far easier to sustain than doing it once in awhile.
7. Motivation is not enough. A person waiting for inspiration limits achievement to times when conditions are desirable. And conditions are rarely always desirable. 
8. Creating healthy rituals will take you further than desires and passions.
9. Consistency will induce failure at some stage, which in turn provides valuable feedback, which ultimately leads to better results.
10. Consistency is more about sustainability than it is about speed.

More Sci-Fi

There was a loud whirring sound and my surroundings began to fade and fizzle away – the stark contrast of bright colors on the stage against the dark, drab colors of Victorian attire and top hats of the audience below; the look of astonishment on the would-be assassin’s face as he crumpled to the floor, only feet away from his target: it all melted into nothingness. The tall, bearded man seated in the state box would never know; the world would never know. But we knew. This is why I was here.

Old Ford’s theater melted away into nothingness. A moment later, the hatch of the pod hissed and then opened. I lifted my headgear and emerged from the pod to the thunderous applause of the entire bunker: dispatch, coordinators, officers, fellow pilots, cadets, janitors, everybody. I could feel a smile creeping across my face. The ovation grew louder as I began to bow and wave in all directions. As I finally began to make my way down the platform, the crowd began to chant my name – “Jen-kins! Jen-kins! Jen-kins!”  I hurried through the throng of bodies, tucked the warm, glowing crystal away in my pocket and ducked into the debriefing office at the far end of the flight deck.

Major Reynolds didn’t even look up as I burst through the door. I dropped my gear on the floor and flung myself into the chair across from the Major’s desk.

“Told you I could do it.” No response from Reynolds. His eyes remained fixed on his paperwork. I grinned. Game on.

“’That’s technologically impossible!’” I began, in a mocking tone. “‘Altering history? Would the time-space continuum withstand such a drastic change? Will we still be here when he gets back? If he succeeds at all?’” I paused for dramatic effect.

“All that discussion, all those secret meetings, back and forth, wasted time and effort; and all you had to do was say the word, throw the bone and watch me fetch it.” Reynolds was silent. I pressed on.

“You see, Major, I’m just a really big dog. Like you, Napoleon.” The Major’s fluffy white pooch growled at me from within its cage. “I am perfectly content to just lie around, take up space and beg for treats,” I winked at the dog. “But you can choose to feed me, train me, nurture me, and even take me out for the occasional walk. A dog’s gotta get out and stretch his legs or he’ll start to make trouble and poop on the floor, putting dirty stains all over your years of hard work.”

For the first time, Reynolds looked up. It was more of sharp glance, but that was all I needed. I leaned forward.

“Just throw me a bone, Major. And I’ll go get it, no questions asked.”

I sat back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. I was about to put my feet up on the desk as well but thought better of it.

“Are you finished?”

“I can keep going if you like.”

“I’d rather you not, Captain.” As rebuking as Reynolds sounded, there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as he said it. “How long did it take you to memorize that one?”

“Believe it or not, I actually came up with that myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Reynolds paused a moment, then returned to business. “Have you run your after-action TDP yet?”

“Um, no I haven’t had my trans-chronicle particle decontamination shower yet… sir."

“Then what in the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you, of course.”

“Jenkins—!”

“Relax Pops, I’ll get to it. You know it’s me; c’mon, why would anybody as brilliant as myself wanna alter their genetic make-up? Does that even make any sense? It’s not like I’m gonna die if I don’t take a shower right away. You just gotta learn to trust me; let me do my thing. I’m a big kid now remember? I can handle big boy underwear. You’ll see, at the end of the day, the brass will be happy, you’ll look good, I’ll look even better and everybody goes home a winner. You, my friend, just need to have a little faith.”

I waited for Reynolds to respond or react, to lash out at me or strike back. Shoot, I was due a promotion after my performance today; it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he busted out the lieutenants stripes right now. But he was silent. The smile slowly melted off my face as he stared into me; the anger and displeasure I expected to see was strangely absent. There was something else in his eyes that I had not seen before; it stopped me in my tracks and made my blood run cold.

“I have another assignment for you, Captain.”

“Uhh, Major?” I was confused. “No debrief?”

“This is… straight from the top.”

I frowned. “Aren’t they all?”

He slid a manila folder across the desk. ‘Top Secret’ of course. The cover didn’t scare me. But the contents of the folder did. A line at the bottom of the first page jumped out at me. ‘This operation will implement a new and untested form of time navigation – a reversal of particle distribution that will allow the pilot to navigate his/her flight through events that have yet to be established in the time-space continuum…’

My eyes grew wide. “That’s impossible,” I breathed. “You said it was scientifically impossible!”

“It is.”

My mouth hung open. I was at a loss; I didn’t know what to say.

“Ever since the discovery of this method of travel and the creation of this unit, our primary objective has been repairing the past to create a better future.” Reynolds spoke in reverent tones. “Little by little, we worked to tweak minor details of the past, small things, cleaning up this mess that the world calls ‘history.’ Today we took the first major step in rebuilding history in a way that has never been done before; in a way that betters all of mankind. But now we have found a way to skip the first step entirely. We will decide the future; we will create our own destiny—one mission at a time.”

The future. The words were stuck in my throat.

“This is strictly off the books,” Reynolds said. “This meeting and this assignment never happened. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”

I had several hours to sleep and prepare myself for this undertaking. Sleep was scarce that night; my nightly routine of nausea and vomiting from skipping my TDP was the main culprit. It didn’t bother me as much as it used to; it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

I read the through the information Reynolds had given me for the fifth time; it still didn’t make any sense. As I knelt next to the toilet for what seemed like hours, I tried to wrap my mind around the task before me; so many unanswered questions to tackle. Fixing “minor things” in the past was trippy enough but altering the future? That was like cheating. There was no need to travel to the future if a person could alter the past, right? Neither my conscience nor my stomach felt right that night. I filed this away in a special place, with all the other discrepancies that I had noted and returned the service log back in its place, next to the collection of stolen power crystals.

I cleaned myself up the best I could before I made my way back to the flight deck at 0200 hours. The large room that had been full of people cheering me on the day before was now fairly empty, except for flight personnel and Major Reynolds waiting for me at my pod. I went through the pre-flight procedures and the added precautions that the complications this new flight would present. As I was about to secure my helmet, I suddenly remember something important.

“Major, wait… What am I supposed to be doing? The mission report didn’t specify a target or a real objective. Who am I supposed to kill?”

“You’ll know,” was his reply. I felt a pang of fear in my stomach and cold shiver shoot down my spine as everything faded away.

If going to the past was like flying an airplane high in the sky and using streets on the ground to reach the destination, going forward to the future was like trying to find a road that doesn’t exist from 40,000 feet and predicting where that nonexistent road will end. More like trying to jam a human being through one specific opening in a cheese grater. Picking one possibility in the millions that exist in the future and then trying to reach a specific one is not only physically impossible, it’s extremely painful. Being stretched and warped, dematerialized and then put back together again was too much to handle. I puked in my helmet and then blacked out.

I woke up a pool of blood. Pain racked my side and my head throbbed. Everything seemed very far away and unreal, like a bad dream. I rolled over to see a man standing over me. I could have sworn I had seen him before but I didn’t know where.

“I knew you would come,” he said. “I knew they would send you. You knew that as well, that’s why you played the part flawlessly; you knew it would come to this. You also know that both of us cannot exist, therefore I cannot allow you to return. I’m sorry, Jenkins.”

For the first time, I noticed the weapon he clutched in his hand and the glowing crystal he held in the other.

Then I knew who he was. He was right.

Science Fiction - Take One

This piece is actually part of an assignment I did for a science-fiction class I'm taking. I'm still learning. And there's no title. Couldn't think of one.

Standing out against the darkness that consumed everything else, the blue orb grew bigger and bigger at a terrifying pace, soon engulfing the entire viewport. Oceans, clouds, and lands came into view. I could see all colors of life below; healthy shades of green, brown tones, tanned and burned, the deep bluish hue of the waters. I had been to this place only once before and it was even more stunning than I had remembered. The occasion had been the same, but the circumstances far different.

There was nothing I could do. No power, no control, no hope. The colors grew bigger, brighter; soon they would devour me completely. I would reach my destination, only to see myself blown into oblivion. I thought of the others; would they survive? Would the epidemic end? Would they send more? I had only come this far because no one else would, because it had to be done. I had left everything behind to find answers, to find hope. But she was nowhere to be found.

My journey was at its end. I was here, and soon I would be gone. Lights flashed, sirens screamed, engines failed. I lifted my gaze to the ever-growing piece of earth I was about to become. Darkness. Then nothing.

The skies were a calming cerulean, not quite the bottomless blue of the oceans that I had seen before. My ship was a smoldering heap, scattered in small chunks all around me. My extremities had no feeling. I lay face up; I couldn’t move. I was slipping away, back into the darkness. Humans, rushing towards me. They spoke to me but I could not understand; to process the sounds and translate them took to much strength. I felt myself being lifted and carried away. All I could feel was pain.

I awoke again.

The room was colorless, filled with unnatural light. The humans scurried about, carefully analyzing me with their tools and machines; probing and prodding, tubes and instruments covered most of my body; glowing fluids were drawn out of me and whisked away in containers as screens projected readings and information to the individuals who tended to me. I was unaware of the time that had passed between my landing and my retrieval. I was dazed and rather confused.

I then remembered my purpose. I was fortunate to be here and not in the condition of my ship but I needed answers. This took prevalence over my condition, my pain and the fact that I didn’t know how I was going to get back, assuming I survived. I felt the urge to speak; I needed to communicate. I gathered the little strength that remained.

“Where is Dr. Spencer?” Silence fell. They all stared at me. No one moved. “I must speak with Dr. Spencer,” I repeated.

More activity; more scurrying. Darkness.

He appeared. He was younger, and he did not wear the same colorless coverings as the others. His presence was familiar; his touch was soothing to my broken body. He twisted his face slightly as he stood over me, but it was not threatening or unpleasant. The minor distortion was some sort of communication for him; I remember him doing the same the last time I saw him. When I had asked him what he was doing with his face, he called it ‘smile’.

“That was quite an entrance you made on that farm back there, destroying crops and land.” Spencer spoke to me in the same manner he did with the other humans. “Scared an old farmer half to death when he realized you weren’t actually human. You can never really get used to it though. How could you? Aliens dropping in from outer space, checkin’ the place out and then leaving without warning; it’s still crazy to think about.” He had drifted away into his own thoughts but now he returned to me. “You took a good hit in that crash; any human would have been killed instantly. This, ah, biotechnology if you will, that’s in your body – it makes for some strong stuff. Never seen anything like it—truly amazing. Those little guys saved your life. Maybe you won’t make a full recovery, but that’s a whole lot better than being dead I’m sure. Although it appears that your, um, your little buddies are beginning to wane in number... that can’t be good.”

I wasn’t listening; I was elsewhere. The one thing I needed, the one thing I could not go back without: Dr. Spencer could tell me how to find it. He will know what to do.

“I have come to retrieve the Stone.”

“What?” He immediately stopped what he was doing and his face was again distorted, differently this time.

“The Stone. We need it. We are dying.” I was barely able to pierce the silence.

“What is it? What is the Stone? Is it a particular thing? Is it a mineral? A power source? What are you looking for?”

“It is life to my home; without it, we die,” I tried to explain. “Auramancers, they have devoured us because their numbers are too great. Without the Stone, we cannot defend ourselves.”

“It is power?”

“No."

“I… I don’t understand. You gotta help me here, help me understand.”

“My world. It is dark and dying. We fight them, but we cannot win. They are everywhere, growing, feeding, killing. We used to hunt them, as you hunt your lesser beings. But now it is not so. Now they rule us.”

Dr. Spencer appeared to be engaging in some heavy processing. I don’t think he understood. How could he? He was only human. Life was so abundant, so perfect on this planet. Everything grows; everything lives. So much life that humans don’t even notice it. They trample, they take, they use; I have witnessed this myself. They destroy themselves and their world because… because they can. On my world, we are confined to our underground sanctums, fearful of the monsters, hoping to see another rotation. There is no life. There is only death. If the humans continue to erase life, my world will become theirs as well.

“Forty-three,” I said. My last resort. I didn’t know what it meant; only that he would. “Forty-three. The Stone.”

Time passed before Dr. Spencer suddenly leapt. “Technetium!” He exclaimed. The words began to come rapidly. “It’s atomic number is forty-three on the  periodic table! How did you know that? Why do you need technetium? It’s a transitional metal yes? Only found in uranium I believe.”

“With it, we can see them before they see us. But it is not found near my home. Where can I find it?”

“Tc-43?” He said again. “You can’t find it. I mean, you don’t find it. You produce it. A combination of uranium and—Wait, whoa!”

I began to rise. Tubes were ripped from my body; instruments and devices fell to the floor. The room came to life, the humans screaming and running in all directions. I struggled to drag myself across the room, fighting the restraints and my own weakness. The darkness was nearing; I fought to keep moving, I fought to stay alive. The survival of my home weighted upon me as I neared collapsing.

“No, no! You need to rest! You’re not strong enough! This can wait, you cannot!”

This cannot wait. And neither could I.

Dr. Spencer was immediately at my side, attempting to revive my unresponsive body. My skin was beginning to shrivel. The darkness was closing in.

“Do not let your world become mine,” I said. No more worlds would die because of me.

I am but just one life in this vast universe. If I fail here, maybe others will rise up and finish what I have attempted to begin. Maybe all is not lost.