Talking Back

Hey. Hey, you.

I can see you.

I can see you sitting there alone in the darkness, hugging your knees, tears catching the moonlight as they roll down your cheeks. I can see the pain in your eyes; I can hear the tremble of desperation and despair in your voice. I can see the marks on your arms and the scars on your soul.

You wrap yourself in the darkness of the night, plunging deeper into the dark corners of your heart where no one lives, where no one sees, where no one knows.

But I know.

I know because you told me. I know because on those days when you couldn't handle it anymore, on those days when the world was against you, those days when it seemed your heart would burst within your chest, you told me. You told me everything. You tell me every night, after the tears, before the darkness consumes you completely.

I see you dying there alone and I know.

I know because I'm just like you.

I too sit alone in the cold, in the darkness, in deep, empty space. I too am dead inside and out, unable to stand for myself, instead I forever shine a light that is not my own.

But know this:
I see a light within you.

I see a faint light, a small flame burning deep in that dark corner of your heart that you forgot you had. Don't let him, don't let them, don't let the world snuff it out. Let it shine. Let it shine vibrant and beautiful like the morning sun; let it sparkle and shimmer like the stars in the heavens. Don't be like me. Don't let someone steal your light.

You are not alone in your pain. Someone sees, and someone knows. Don't bury that light. Shine from within, not without.

Your friend,
the Moon

Drowning

Tears fall, crashing to the ground like fists banging on the walls of a forgotten dungeon, desperately seeking a way out, crying out for help, left to rot and die.

No one can hear them.

Resounding

The piece of paper flutters violently in his trembling hands. His voice is nowhere to be found. Alone on the stage, the room is silent, waiting, expectant. He buries his face in his notes, shrinking behind the podium.

He begins slowly, faintly; his voice a whisper, his lips barely forming the words. The room is deathly quiet, only the faint murmur of his voice can be heard.

He continues. First paragraph complete. A small one, but an accomplishment nonetheless. He starts the next one, a bit louder this time. And the next one. The stage doesn't seem so large and lifeless anymore.

He presses on, halfway down the page now. His hands no longer tremble; his voice growing stronger with each sentence. The words are making sense now.

Now he's no longer merely reciting words--he's believing, preaching, spewing these words with deep passion. His initial fright is forgotten; he no longer fears his audience. His voice rings out from the stage, enveloping the room with words that he can stand behind and call his own. The page flutters to the floor; now he's speaking from his heart.

He grips the podium and pauses for an instant to catch his breath. For the first time, he scans the room. Rows upon rows of empty seats meet his eyes, and his ears are filled with the rolling echo of his own voice.

Trophies

I'm not here for a trophy. I could care less about a shiny cup, bowl, statue, belt or whatever they give you to set on the shelf or mantle and collect dust. I'm not after a trophy; I'm not after an award.

An award doesn't tell me where I've been, a trophy doesn't show me how hard I worked to get there, a shiny cup doesn't express the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment and success when I finally arrive, when I finally conquer the mountain.

I'm striving for a moment, a feeling, an experience, a culmination of everything I've done and everything I've sacrificed to stand right here, right now. Moments only last for an instant before they become memories, but I'd rather seize my moment than swim in a room full of trophies that mean absolutely nothing.

I don't need an award to know I've reached the summit, and I don't need a belt to know I'm a champion.

Open Fields, Endless Skies

Streaks of red and orange, hints of soft pinks and purples mix like water colors

Dark mountains and rolling hills cast low shadows, relief from sight and sunlight

Lights below, clustered, powered, false and artificial

Lights above, born and raised, burning brightly across boundless expanses

Mountains to hide, sky lights to guide

Messy and crowded towers against

Only open fields and horizons ahead

No fog or smog to cloud or shroud

Only endless skies, open possibility and ability 

To run with reckless abandon

Freedom to do, to be, to try

No boxes, walls, or mold

By myself to be myself

Wind at my back, sun on my face

The open road is all my own

Alone

Ice Cream Therapy

"Hi, how can I help you?"

I was supposed to be happy. I should've been happy.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

School was out, the sun was shinning, and I was with some of my best friends. In an ice cream parlor no less. There was no reason to be unhappy.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

I don't remember why I was upset. I do remember trying to disappear into that spot on the floor I was staring at, trying to drown out the dull roar of people everywhere around me, wanting to escape and sulk somewhere away from here by myself.

"Hey buddy!"

I could hear the smile in her voice without looking up. Now she was talking to me.

"What can I get for you today?"

Maybe it was her piercing blue eyes and curly, deep red hair beneath a blue trucker hat that I saw behind the counter when I finally looked up. Maybe it was the absence of the scripted greeting she had given every customer before me. Maybe she saw that I just needed a little something sweet to rub on my wounded ego.

Whatever it was, it wasn't the cookies 'n' cream perched on top of a waffle cone that had me feeling like I could face the world once again by the time I hit the door.