Math

Every time I have ventured outside of my comfort zone, outside of this little burrow where I  like to hibernate until the sun is shining and the weather is just right, every time that I have mustered the courage to do something I've never done before has been so worth it: memories made, lessons learned, friendships of the strongest caliber forged.

Yet my calculations must be wrong because every time I steel myself to take that leap of faith outside of the familiarity of my cozy circle of existence, I falter on the front porch because the risks still seem to overwhelm the rewards.

But then again, I was never very good at math.

Stained

I tried to erase the stray line and only succeeded in smearing more ink on the page. I silently cursed the pen in my hand. This would be so much easier if this was a pencil.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Once again I put pen to paper, lightly dragging the tip across the page, the quill just barely caressing the white spaces. I could feel the muscles in my arm tense and tighten as I gripped the pen, trying to guide the little black snakes into their proper places.

Yet dark lines prevailed, wild and crooked, no matter how much I strained to lighten my touch. Little branches of ink grew into sprawling trees spreading their dark limbs into all the wrong places, quickly casting long shadows into the furthest corners of the page. The more I tried to correct the lines, the more the ink smeared and smudged. The ominous trees were rooted too deep, and it was going to take a lot more than vigorous rubbing to remove them.

Dark lines progressed into thick smudges and black puddles. Long streaks originally meant to atone for earlier mistakes morphed into blatantly dark blobs that settled nowhere near the mark. Ink seeped out of the quill and continued to creep across the page like dark clouds gathering speed. I began to scribble recklessly, anger and frustration fueling the whirlwind of ink that threatened to consume the entire page.

In the midst of my frenzy, I looked down at my hands for the first time. From the tips of my fingers to my wrists was covered in ink. Both hands. Ink was creeping up my forearms too, almost to my elbows. My workspace was sprinkled with the splashing of my efforts; my face was probably covered in ink too.

It's everywhere and it's not coming off.

What are they going to say about the kid who came out of art class with more ink on himself than on his paper?

So I coped. Hands shoved deep into pockets, pulling my hat over my face, eyes on the floor. Maybe if I don't look they won't see it. But once I stole a glance at other people's papers, and well, their papers were dark and smudgy too.

I watched the way they streamed in and out of the classroom, walked the halls, interacted with each other. I wasn't the only one with dirty hands.

It lies in bags under the eyes, in deep wrinkles on the cheeks, in the faint sadness that lingers within shrinking pupils that are often hidden behind sunglasses, fleeting glances, rehearsed smiles, and the latest smartphone. But it's there. You can see it if you pay attention.

So I sit at my desk, drowning my own ink while the teachers tell me I'm doing fine because hey, everyone else's hands are stained too. We're all drowning really, faces permanently darkened by the stain of past mistakes; this incurable blot that can't be rubbed out no matter how hard we try. Instead it smears and stains as we spread it around from page to page, hand to hand. And yet, no matter whose ink has found its home on my hands or on my page, it's still my picture because my name is at the top and I'm holding the pen, however loosely or firmly I choose the grasp it.

I felt a swoosh of air and there he sat next to me. I gave him a funny look.

"Whatcha got there?"

My ears were hot again and I'm sure the red of my cheeks was visible under the mess on my face.

"A drawing," I mumbled. I felt like smothering my paper against my chest.

"Not really an artist huh?" I shook my head without looking up.

"Let me draw it for you," he said.

Ahh, I don't know dude. I know it's bad but this is my drawing. You don't even know what I'm trying to draw (well, neither do I but still). And where in the world are you going to put any sort of artistic expression on this ink-soaked piece of paper?

"I don't think you wanna get your clothes all dirty," I began.

He began to roll up his sleeves before I finished speaking and he motioned towards my pen. I was ready to hurl it across the room only moments before but suddenly it mattered. He wants to take my pen. 

I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my chest. I could've heard a pen drop. He sat there patiently with his hand extended towards me and I noticed for the first time that his hands were clean. Stainless.

I took a deep breath and reluctantly surrendered the pen. I still couldn't bring myself to look at him but I could tell he was smiling. My hands felt weird and empty after furiously clutching the pen for so long. 

When I finally looked up, he was bent over a notebook that had his name on it. He wrote my name underneath his and turned to the first page.

It was white.

Field of Dreams

May 13, 2003

Amidst the ocean of brake lights I finally saw it: the majestic stadium nestled in the soft bowl of Chavez Ravine, and the towering stadium lights burning bright and pure against the orange sunset and steel backdrop of Downtown Los Angeles.

People of all shapes and colors streamed through the parking lot in the same direction as if they were being sucked into a black hole by some unseen force, like worshippers journeying to the temple, all with one thing in common--Dodger blue. I could easily pick out the names of my favorite players on the backs of other fans. How was it possible that so many people were just as obsessed with this as I was? How had so many followers all decided to unite on this one night?

Inside the massive maze of a stadium, everything was covered in everything Dodgers: vendors, gift shops, Dodger dogs, Dodgers television. Crowds of fans swirled in all directions and I clung tighter to my dad's hand as he led me through the throng towards our seats. I was suddenly embarrassed that I neither wore nor possessed anything resembling the sacred shade of blue that I had pledged my allegiance to and that now enveloped everything and everyone in sight. I felt naked and out of place--until we stepped into the stands for the first time.

The first thing I saw was green--the most vibrant, perfect shade of green I've ever seen, almost too green to be real; greener than any field I'd ever set foot on, greener than all the times I'd seen it on TV. How do they make the grass so green? Maybe it's special Dodgers grass. Perfectly manicured stripes of green crisscrossed their patterns across the grass where fan-favorites like Shawn Green and Dave Roberts would roam eighty-one nights a year. Several figures clad in white effortlessly tossed the ball impossible distances across the vast green expanse; the white of the ball easily visible against the sea of green.

I watched other players warm up and stretch elsewhere on the field as groundskeepers watered the infield, turning the rich brown of the dirt even darker. This time the names of my favorite players rested on their own shoulders. Cesar Izturis and Alex Cora talked casually in the grass while Adrian Beltre continued his jog across the field--my idols in the flesh. I was breathless, riveted to my seat.

And then it was game time.

"And now, your Los Angeles Dodgers!"

The stadium erupted as the vibrations of the booming PA system rolled through my chest, adding to the pang of excitement in my stomach. I already knew the lineup by heart before the PA announced it, but with the music pounding through the enormous speakers behind the centerfield wall, the rumble of the announcer enunciating every name, the roar of the crowd as each player was announced--I'd never heard the lineup like this. Dave Roberts wasn't leading off tonight; Brian Jordan was playing center in his place. Sad. Oh well.

The ball seemed larger and everything moved much faster than on TV. This was nothing like watching televised baseball: no onscreen stats, no commentators, no commercials or ads between innings. The players played and the stands roared its approval; no more, no less. It was purely baseball, unfiltered and untainted. Every crack of the bat, every pitch hitting the glove was just as real and close to me as the crunch of peanuts beneath my feet. This was heaven.

I couldn't see the faces of the players up like the close-ups on TV; now they were just walking colors and numbers but I could tell who was who. I could peer across the field into the Atlanta dugout and spy Chipper Jones leaning over the railing with Gary Sheffield; I could watch Brian Jordan interact with the left field ball boy between innings. Although I couldn't tell whether Paul Lo Duca had shaved tonight or not, it all made my idols seem more believable. More like men instead of gods.

And they played ball. Every strike was greeted with thunderous applause, vendors patrolled the stands selling peanuts, frozen lemonade and real Cracker Jack, and fans played keep away from the stadium ushers with beach balls. I begged for a Dodger dog until Dad gave in. There I saw, happily munching on a ten-inch hot dog slathered in ketchup and onions while my dad asked my baseball trivia that I fielded with ease.

I counted the innings as the game went on because I didn't want it to end--but I wanted the Dodgers to win too. The score went back and forth; Atlanta scored and the Dodgers answered back the next inning. In the bottom of the 5th, LA outfielder Mike Kinkade hit the ball high into the night sky. The piercing crack of the bat sent the hometown crowd to its collective feet. Andruw Jones could only watch as the ball soars into the mysterious space behind the centerfield fence. The stadium explodes as lights flash and Kinkade nonchalantly takes his victory lap around the bases while I high-fived as many people as I could. It was the best thirty seconds of my life.

When the middle of the seventh rolled around, I stood on my seat, wrapped my arms around my dad's broad shoulders and sang "Take Me Out tot he Ballgame" at the top of my voice along with 40,000 people. Because it's root root root for the Dodgers, we sang; if they don't win it's a shame. When Ron Coomer singled home Izturis later that inning to give us the lead, it appeared we were on our way to victory.

The Dodgers entered the 9th leading 4-3, and that only meant one thing--Eric Gagne. The noise meter on the jumbotron began to spike as the stadium came to its feet one last time to hail the beard Canadian jogging in from the left field bullpen. "Welcome to the Jungle" blared over the speakers as he took his warmup tosses. I couldn't see his goggled face but the big number 38 on his back was enough for me. Fifty-two saves in 2002 made him one of the best closers in baseball and my favorite pitcher. Gagne on the mound with a lead was game over.

But not tonight. The Braves kept swinging and send the ball into the outfield grass as runner continued to cross the plate. The 4-3 lead quickly became an 8-4 fiasco. Gagne was pulled and had to take the long walk of shame to the dugout, a walk he rarely took. The stadium began to empty as the Braves continued to hit Dodger pitching, and soon the score was 11-4 Atlanta. My dad wanted to leave because it was late and LA traffic was getting worse by the minute but I begged him to stay.

"The Dodgers are losing and it's past your bedtime," he said. "Sorry bud." I knew that but I didn't care. I didn't want it to end no matter how bad it was; I wanted to hold on to every minute of this once in a lifetime opportunity to share this sacred airspace with the best in baseball.

I walked dejectedly back through the parking lot with thousands of disappointed fans, my back to the lights and the grass and the players. On the way home I turned on the radio to listen to Vin Scully describe the last inning. The Dodgers went down quietly, unable to mount a comeback.

When I got home, I  gratefully collapsed into bed. My team had lost and my ears were still ringing, but as I slipped into dreams and unconsciousness, I was back on that field of perfect green.

Keep Going

The smiling little boy from earlier was nowhere to be found as Jason chomped down on his mouthpiece. The adorable little blue belt had sprouted nerves of steel as he squared up with the kid opposite him, both clad in sparring gloves, helmets and feet pads. I never knew how drastic height discrepancies could be between eight and nine year old boys until today; Jason's opponent was a good twelve inches taller.

Continuous sparring was different from normal point sparring matches. The kids got two thirty- second rounds to go at it and judges decided who had a better overall round; first to win two rounds moves on. After judging for the past eight hours, I never wanted to see another eight year old martial artist again. But this last fight of the day was for 1st place so I summoned a final burst of energy from achy knees and tired eyes for one more match.

The cuteness factor, complete lack of front teeth (also cute), and Jason's wild ride to the final match (he'd taken an illegal kick to the back in the previous round and walked it off) all added up to my "slight" pull for the little asian boy to defeat the odds (and the height difference) and take the win in this David vs. Goliath reenactment. As a judge I'm not supposed to be biased or root for one kid over another, but from the first time he flashed his toothless smile at me, I was Team Jason.

The two kids became a flurry of movement. Jason was quickly overmatched by the bigger kid who used his longer legs to descend upon the smaller boy with sweeping roundkicks. Jason did his best to dodge them, dancing on the edges of the hurricane of hook-kicks to dart in a land a punch or two between kicks and duck back out again. He was successful several times in a row and I smiled at his strategy. I've definitely gotten the short straw in matches like this before.

Jason mistimed one of his lunges and Goliath countered with a high roundhouse that ended in a loud thud, sending Jason to the carpet. All three of us judges dove between the kids to stop the fight. Jason was slow to get up, mouth hanging open but no sound came out. I sent Jason to his sideline coach, his dad.

"Go on, Jason," his dad said to him quietly when he finished examining Jason's mouth for blood. "You can do it." He turned Jason around and gently pushed him back into the ring to face his new worst nightmare. Jason was crying now, the sweat from his brow mingling with the tears that tumbled down his cheeks. Only six seconds left in the round. C'mon Jason. 

Suddenly a large group of people materialized in the stands, all wearing the same blue t-shirt that Jason was wearing. The quiet encouragement of his father was quickly drowned out by Jason's entire team filling the room with shouts and cheers as Jason's gingerly toed up with the big kid again. You can do it.

The longest six seconds of Jason's life ended as he ducked and dodged in earnest.
Judges score: Big Kid 1, Jason 0.

I watched father console his weeping son during the twenty-second break between rounds. I'm sorry Jason. I was in your shoes just yesterday. I took 2nd place in a semifinal I knew I couldn't win, yet the sting of defeat was overshadowed by the hopelessness of having my sliver of hope crushed, my window of opportunity closed, a peek into a dream that didn't come true today. Blood, sweat, and tears for nothing. I felt like throwing chairs. Going home heavy-hearted was far worse than going home empty-handed. I let my fists fly into the bathroom wall instead.

I knew why Jason was crying, and it wasn't because of the pain shooting up his little spine or the ringing in his little ears or the 2nd place trophy that already had his name on it. I would've spilled those same tears myself if I wasn't twenty-two years old. Everybody in the room knew Jason wasn't going to win, but we weren't cheering because we wanted a comeback. We just wanted Jason to come back.

Jason's dad pushed the little boy back into the ring again. Jason's team was even louder than before as twenty plus adults stood on their feet and shouted at the top of their voices for an eight-year-old kid. His face was still wet as he squeezed his hands into little fists. C'mon, Jason. 

The second round began with Jason on the move again, running from the black-padded feet that swung above his head. He had stopped looking for openings long ago; Jason just wanted to live.

Yet the kicks managed to catch up with him no matter how hard he tried, and Jason ate another kick to the head, quickly followed by several solid punches to the chest. Each collision of pad meeting pad was dreadfully audible, and Jason was reeling again. Jason's team roared with every successful dodge and poured forth many encouragements for the boy who was crying again. Amid the cheering and the tears and ringing ears, Jason's dad was ever present on the edge of the ring, just a few feet away from his son.

"C'mon, Jason! Keep going!"

Keep going, Jason. Don't give up like me.

Another landed kick. Jason stumbles.

C'mon, Jason.

Jason ducks to his right, narrowly missing another blow to the head. His team roars their approval.

Keep going, Jason.

Only a few seconds left. It's all I can do not to encourage the brave little boy.

Keep going--

Time!

Jason's team goes berserk as he disappears into his father's arms. The lump in my throat steadily rises as I have to cast my vote against the real winner of this match: Big Kid 2, Jason 0.

Jason was still sobbing as he stepped into the ring one last time to receive his second place trophy to the thunderous applause of the hometown crowd. As the competitors walked around to shake the judges hands, I knelt and grabbed Jason by the shoulders. His dad was still on the sidelines patiently waiting for him, but for the next couple of moments, Jason was my son.

"You did good, Jason. You did so good." I'm so proud of you.

I blinked back tears as I returned the sobbing boy to his dad. If my dad had been here I'm certain he would've said those same words to me as I tore up my second place card the day before. But now I understood those words, perhaps for the first time.

The scene remained ingrained in my mind for the rest of the weekend: crowd cheering, dad whispering encouragement, and the young boy in the center of the ring facing his demons, armed with nothing but sweat and tears.

I bit down into my mouthpiece and clinched my fists.

No Savior

Images flash on the screen as I sit front of my computer at weird hours of the night watching a blind guy beat the hell out of bad people with his fists in an aptly-named town called Hell's Kitchen. Let's face it: we're all mashing the "next episode" button on Netflix not because we're Marvel fanboys or slaking our thirst for a gritty comic book drama or hungover on righteous beatdowns of bad guys representing the ugly people in the world who deserve it most. We're here, separately united behind glowing screens because we all want to wear a cape, to be badass enough to put the hurt on those who need it, to take a punch and keep fighting, to stand up for a worthy cause.

Because if a blind guy can do it, I can do it.

I pull the mask over my face as night descends on my city, cracking my knuckles in anticipation. I don't have a name or a costume or a signature catchphrase to quote before I descend on unassuming thug preying on helpless victim, but I don't need one if I possess the heart to stand up for justice. Right?

Left hand, right hook, roundhouse to the ribs--would-be purse-thief crumbles to the ground. Spinning hook-kick across the temple for the carjacker, jumping knee to the groin for the rapist, uppercutting elbow for the abusive father/husband. Leave 'em laying in that dark alley, in the backstreet with no lights, bruised and broken, never to hurt another poor soul again. The cause of justice fuels my furious fists--or perhaps it is the dull thud of foot meeting face, the crunching of bones hitting the pavement that drives me. I'm no dark knight. But I want them to fear me. 

I'll defend the defenseless in this fictional town where evil arrives clear as day dressed in outrageous costumes, revealing grand schemes of global domination for me to bravely foil in the closing seconds of the episode. I'll fearlessly face the forces of evil head-on, bashing skulls for goodness' sake to make the city a better place.

Plot twist: 

I'm not here to save the city. 

I know the good guy doesn't always get the girl because "I have to keep you safe" and secret identities and stuff but I wouldn't let that stop me. I'd still swoop in at the last moment when you're in the deepest hole, when it looks like all is lost just to snatch you out of the clutches of evil. I'd rescue you from your doubts, your insecurities, your fears because you deserve better. Blood-thirsty thugs and base criminals lurking around dark corners to seize the innocent girl have to go through me first. I'd happily slam my fists into anyone who treats you any less than the amazing person you are. You wouldn't even suspect that the brave man behind the mask risking his wellbeing for the good of others was really me; the shy and introverted kid is the cover for my cape. Maybe you'd thank me like Mary-Jane did on that rain-soaked street, lifting my mask just enough to uncover my lips...

I could be a hero. But I wouldn't save the world, or even the city--I'd only save you. You are my world.

Plot twist-twist:

I can't save the world. 

I can't beat back the forces of evil or pummel fools who dare to lay hands on innocent people or shield you from all the ugly things the world has to offer. I can't push back the oncoming darkness because I can't land a punch on my own shadow.

I don't wear a cape because I can't fly. I wear a mask not because I'm a master ninja or fearless vigilante, but to hide my scars--my cuts from the last fight I lost to the jagged edges of a broken bottle, my bruises when I got blindsided by that car, my brokenness from when I lost my footing and fell off that roof. Now I'm weeping Tobey because my web has run dry and I can't find my super-suit. But spiders never bite me, I'm not trained by assassins, I don't have a suit of armor. I can't shoot a bow or run fast or punch straight. I live with my parents and I'm five-feet-three-inches of skinny, scared, and please don't hurt me.

But I don't know what's worse for my ego: a hero who needs saving or the girl who doesn't.

You're the one saving me, collecting my bruised and broken body from the street after thugs and bullies put the beating on the guy who's supposed to be giving them out. Yet you scoop me up, limp and nearly unconscious and bring me to your home, nursing my wounds and tending to my injuries until I can get back to my feet. Soup and a smile, you said. You walk me home, leading me by the hand like a lost child until I find my way again--because this isn't the first time. And it won't be the last.

And then you're gone, flying away to be the perfect help to someone else, leaving me standing there looking skyward, chicken soup still warm in my hands, the imprint of your selflessness still evident on my face. She's clothed in compassion they say, greeting darkness not with closed fists but open hands to heal and hold. Killin' em with kindness.

Thank you random citizen, I manage from behind this stupid mask. We need more people like you, making the world a better place one kindness at a time. Sure I have a mask and a husky voice and blood on my knuckles but I'm an imposter in a jumpsuit. I can't find my cape because you're already wearing it.

What is an unemployed super hero supposed to do with all his free time?

I stare at the screen eating my popcorn in awe as Russian mobsters continue to fall to the fists of blind justice. He's no devil, and I'm no savior.

Doldrums

I cursed the wind for not blowing

                        but I had already stopped rowing.

Leave Her

I found myself humming to the sound of the old man's voice rolling across the water as she sailed onward. I ran my fingers along the weather grain of the old railing as she sway gently beneath my feet. The salty breeze was sprinkled with the smell of trees and green--of land. Seagulls hovered overhead, suspended in the wind blowing inland. 

I looked at my hands again--my weapons, my tools, my means of living--they were dirty, calloused, strong. Months of climbing riggings, mending ropes and sails have hardened more than just my hands. My leathered cheeks are now just as smooth and worn as the railing; the hair on my face now coarse like coils of heavy rope, like the unforgiving winds that pass over my tanned body every day. My muscles are tight and strong, and they assure me that I can handle any loose cannon or surprise storm that comes my way. But I haven't gotten this far by myself.

This floating piece of wood has become the dwelling of many others like me, others who first set foot on this deck many moons ago as young boys seeking adventure and experience. We all agreed to this voyage, strangers brought together on one boat. But we are no longer strangers trying to survive harsh winds, heavy storms, bad food, and scurvy; we are sailors--brothers--pressing on through rough seas and impossible odds; we are weathered and weary, but stronger and wiser. 

And now, with the shore growing larger as we draw near, I will be separated from this ship and from these men for the first time. Once united against wind and waves, we will go our separate ways. I imagine some will inevitably board another ship and return to this life; some find the smell of salt water and the rhythmic rocking of the waves as the beating of the heart, and the sight of an endless horizon is worth the broken backs and the soggy meals. But the rest of us will return to our homes and our lives before to become carpenters, blacksmiths, and farmers once again.

The raw power of a sudden squall no longer sends shivers down my spine but a life outside of this wooden railing does. The rolling, unpredictable nature of the sea that has become my home stands worlds apart from the solid, unforgivingness of the shore. If I am no longer a sailor, then what am I? What am I do to? Where am I to go?

But I take comfort in knowing that the young boy who departed is not that man who will return. Yet I still hold the childish hope that nothing will have changed when I return home, knowing full well that I am the one who has changed. When I return to solid ground again, it will be just as the day I first put the leather of my boot to the deck on which I now stand--it will be a new ocean for me to explore. Being land-locked won't be so bad. My legs are strong; they will grow accustomed to it again. The thought of fresh wages soon to be filling my pockets doesn't hurt my optimism either.

The singing began to drift away with the wind as her mass of wood and sails slid into the docks. Weigh anchor boys, pull and tug on the old ropes once again, for old time's sake. This deck, these sails, this ship will not be lost to me. But brothers are hard to find.

With the old shanty still ringing in my ears, I gathered my belongings and joined the rest as we walked single-file down the gangplank to set foot on a new stretch of wood.

"I thought I heard the old man say...":

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfk6GjcArEI

keys

black on white
white on black
fingers in flight
dancing

pages and lines and letters
letters and lines and pages
read for
read to
fingers fly
souls collide

ivory
plastic

keys

endless

the blank page is a most terrifying sight
an endless field of white spread across my desk
like a falling snow on growing crops
a descending death
smothering my seed of thought
a newborn shoot of inspiration
my pen falls silent out of desperation
brought on by a sinking feeling in my chest
the momentum of the moment ground to a halt
by grains of salt sprinkled about in my bleeding confidence
wounds laid open by self-inflicted pain
as motivation to regain the spark that's been lost
a futile effort to shake the frost that's settled on the page
an unrelenting winter that threatens to last an age
shivering in the dark
huddled in my mind
racing against time to thaw the ice
to penetrate the freeze that has brought me to my knees
wading waist-deep in thick snow
searching for words with nothing to show
but icicle tears
unfeeling fingers
and reconfirmed fears
all around are barren trees
naked branches with no fruit or leaves
no hint of green
no signs of life
only ice
and endless white

what if this isn't just a momentary fall
what if i can't do this after all
the longer the page remains smothered in white
choking out the life i sought to bring to the light
the more i am filled with a bone-chilling fright
that hounds me for the rest of the night
held together by whispers from the back of my shriveled heart
'you're finished' they hiss as i shiver in the dark
all because i've failed to make a mark on this lifeless page
at first i was hot with rage
but now its too cold
now im too numb
darkness prevails
this ship has sailed
i dont know what to say

but if i can survive this sleepless night
if i can withstand the pains of frostbite
when the smells of spring roll across this hidden valley
when the light of day illuminates my huddled form in this dirty alley
roses and daisies will bloom again
this feeling of dread and doom within will melt away
even though the ground is covered in white
i've dedicated my life to transforming sleepless nights
into fields teeming with words of insight
because the page of white is simply a stage
that is ripe with possibilities
and until my pen is laid to rest
until the players and actors have begun to undress
the possibilities are truly endless

wallflowered

i'm sure she's a nice girl but how do i know i'm a nice guy
i'll probably never know
because every time i try to come up with something to say to her
a reason for her to remember my face
a reason for her to consider me worthy enough
to have a place in her circle of friends
i cant do it
i dont know why
i cower, i hide, i cant muster the guts to swallow my pride
and walk over there to introduce myself
"hey hows it goin my name is jordan"
no way
i walked past her on the steps today
i didnt even say hi
in fact i looked the other way
in the end my fears always win
and im forever alone again
because i cant find the words to say
because im afraid to try

Sarah

I drove past Sarah's memorial again today on the winding road to Nike Point. 

It's still there. Only the biggest parts of the memorial still stand--the wreath of now withered flowers and the big heart-shaped statue with the wings, faded after holding its post for a year, along with a couple candles that survived the weather. But it's still there.

It's been a year since my friends and I swerved around that corner in the dark and discovered the army of memories assembled by the roadside. Seeing it in daylight against the gray and rainy skies wasn't as dramatic as the first time, but I could see it clearly now and that drove it home once again. We hadn't imagined it; it really happened.

There was no eerie winds, no lump in my throat, no devastating silence this time. No one got out of the car to look; just a prolonged glance as the car wheeled past. But that was enough.

On the way back down, I tried not to look at it. 

I'm sorry, Sarah.

Click this to remember: 

The Approaching Curve

awaken again

i would die in your arms just to awaken in them again
to be revived by the heavenly touch of your skin
a spark restarted by a kiss from your lips
rescuing me from the darkness within myself
my secret abyss
to be nursed back to health by one so abundant
in wealth of intangible treasures
that couldn't possibly be measured
because purity is priceless

i lay there for hours on end with my head in your hands
desperately trying to understand the mystery of your existence
of your unwavering persistence towards a mere mortal like me
no matter how hard i try i've never found your wings
but not all angels fly
yet you continue to sing to my soul without uttering a sound
and i cant remember the last time my feet touched the ground
all i know is your arms around me
your touch disarms me
and then my walls come tumbling down
all without a sound

i wish i could relive the first time i saw you over and over again
the first time i felt alive within
the first time i could breathe again
but at the same time you took my breath away
a gift i could never repay
but now i pray that i never see the day
when my guardian angel decides to fly away
so i gladly spend my days trying to find different ways
to discover where you start and where i end
where is the ground on which we stand
there is no beginning and hopefully no end
to my journey with this miracle that im blessed to call my friend
just dying and waking to you again
over and over and over

my favorite pastime that makes me heart leap
my unattainable goal that i always try to keep
is falling asleep to the sound of my pencil trying to trace the edges of your soul
the impossible task of trying to grasp your being whole
you put my fears to rest and my demons to sleep
when we're together my soul is complete
maybe im still dreaming
maybe seeing is believing
maybe time is fleeting
and now my doubts are fleeing but i fear you are leaving
so let's continue unceasing until we reach our destination
a safe haven where we can finally
be free of pain and sin and all the darkness i hold within
so i can die in your arms
just to awaken in them again

am i alive or am i dead?
does it really matter you said
either way we'll spend our forever together
to be together forever
whether we failed to pay or earned our way
through pearly gates to streets of gold is not my concern
only that you learn to grow old with one
who truly fights to save your soul
that's what i want you to know
never let that go

eyes fly open like i've gone away and come back
like my heartbeat is out of whack
because of this emptiness this feeling of lacking
that always attacks me when i look around and remember im alone
you're no longer within arms reach
my heart has lost the will to beat
stranded on this beach of despair
because you are no longer here
there's nothing in sight that can calm my fright
of succumbing to the reality that i'll never be alright
except for the piece of steel to my right
i just want to end this night and the pain that has arisen
from these dreams that have given me a false hope
i think im dying please pass me the rope
something anything to set me free
of this darkness growing inside of me
but then i remember all the things you said to me
not all angels fly
darkness doesn't always have to win
and i know that it's a sin to hold this steel
up against my chin
but all i want is the pain to end
all i want is to touch your skin
all i want is to die in your arms
and awaken in you again

Pledge

I don't write enough to be a writer.
I don't travel enough to be a traveler.
I don't dream enough to be a dreamer.
I don't love enough to be a lover.
I don't wander enough to be a wanderer.
I don't accomplish enough to be accomplished.
I don't do enough to make a difference.
I don't do enough to be much of anything.
I'm not anything.

But
I don't lose enough to be a loser.
I haven't failed enough to be a failure.

I can write more.
I can travel more, discover more, learn more, dream more, inspire more.
I can live more.
I can do more.
I can be more.
I can.
I am.