From Me to You

She begins slowly with a few soft lines sketched in the middle of empty space in a lifeless universe. Steady motion produces more lines, giving way to distinct shapes. Talent and effort becomes apparent as lines and shapes mature into images, characters living and breathing within a real space, within another life, another world. The hand moves as the mind sees, as she sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of her ability. The final touches, an explosion of vibrant color completes the journey from mental image to physical snapshot.

He begins slowly as well, a few lines and strokes residing between lines on a page. He too aims to paint his imagination, he too looks to bring images to life and create anew within empty space. However, his approach is subtle and his method discreet. Many miss it upon first glance. The hand moves as the mind sees, as he sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of his ability. But there are no images on his page, no pictures, no worlds, no life. Only words. Only words that spew color and imagination, only words that carry depth and meaning from his mind to any reader willing to see it and any reader willing to digest it. An explosion of vision and purpose, leaping off the page and coming to rest with anyone who is brave enough to light the fuse, one spark to another.

She draws. He writes. She sings, he paints, she dances, he plays, they live and we all create. From thought to expression, imagination to realization, artist to viewer, from me to you.

With Open Eyes

He sat on the bench as he did everyday, drinking in the sunrise, absorbing the warmth of the day, motionless as the movement of the day swirls around him. He rests on the bench but his soul is elsewhere, flying far above the ground, traveling to lands unseen and worlds unknown. His steps have been carefully planned and he rehearses his flight every day. He has seen many sun-risings and sun-fallings, many moons and countless years from his seat on the bench. His hair is gray now and his body grows old, but his spirit is still young and restless. His feet would never touch the ground that his soul so faithfully tread.

"All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find that it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible." - T.E. Lawrence

Dear Diary..

Dear diary, what a day it's been
Dear diary, it's been just like a dream
Woke up too late, wasn't where I should've been
For goodness sake, what's happening to me?
Write lightly,
Yours truly..

Dear diary,
It's worse that I thought. The face in the mirror today, bloodshot, unshaven, unkempt. Alarm still ringing in my ears. The red numbers tell me it's too early to be awake. The sun is still asleep. Desk is a mess, books, papers, dinner from three nights ago, where did this come from? Mind is groggy and messy like my hair. Like my desk. Now the numbers tell me I should have started half an hour ago. This pile of papers will be the death of me.

Some days my desk is the chariot of freedom, the page my only escape. Not today. Today the lined paper is my cage, the chains that bind and restrain me. 

See that? Should've saved that one for the blog. I could be blogging right now. Ugh, don't remind me. Distracted. Coffee's probably cold by now. I really need to get to work instead of writing about how I need to get to work.

The fiery oranges and soft yellows creeping over the horizon makes me smile even from behind the locked and closed window. Even that was halfway artistic. The sky's a canvas right now, the grass shimmering in the sunlight, wet with the morning dew. A breath of rain still lingers in the fresh, crisp air. At least I think so. I can't tell from in here.

What if I went outside real quick? The silence in here is so loud right now, just the sounds of the morning might cure me of the stale life I'm living. What I wouldn't give to go outside. To be free for five minutes. To be me for five minutes. Anything is better than this. But I've already wasted enough time. I should've started an hour ago. But five more minutes never killed anybody. Only five minutes, I swea--

Tied to the Wrong Desk

I could write another cryptic post about how this blog has gone dark but I don't even have time for that right now. Things are a bit hectic with school and I haven't been able to let the dust the settle on my desk so I can write something. I haven't had time to think. That's my problem. Anyway, I'll try to get back to it as soon as I find a moment to catch my breath. 

Thanks for your support.

Smoke and Mirrors

The auditorium begins to fill. Like a glacier, the throng of nameless people descend down the aisles to their seats. Deep breath. Showtime.

Curtain opens, music erupts, sparks fly. Take my hand and follow me. Dancers dance, singers sing, actors act. Let me tell you a story, let me sing you a song. Lights, colors, motion. Magic, illusion, awe. I'll make you feel, I'll make you care. Stakes are raised, emotion rises. Climax, plot twist, fireworks, finale.

Curtains close, show's over. Crowd erupts, standing ovation. Leave the theater, you can't stay here. Clean up, wind down, prepare to do it all again tomorrow.

Small child approaches, eyes full of magic. "I saw you behind the curtain," he says. "I saw you pushing the buttons and pulling the levers. Why didn't you come out on stage?"

Kneel to his level, eye to eye. "I was onstage the whole time," I said. "Sometimes it's really hard to see me through all the smoke and fireworks."

"How come you use the smoke?"

"The crowd isn't here to see me. They just want to see a show."

The child thought for a second. 

"Do you ever wish the people could see you?"

My turn to think.

"They will. Someday."

All The King's Men

Glass bottles on the windowsill, standing proud and still for all to see. The grunge of sweat and tears no longer stains; only transparent glass remains, polished and clear. Once prized and cherished, now cold and useless. Open mouths reaching upwards in protest, longing to be filled. The tops were never found. Emptiness abounds.

The windowsill is full of emptiness, growing everyday like a bad addiction, new and clean replacing old and dusty, overflowing, lingering precariously on the edge. Spinning, tumbling, crashing against harsh reality like raindrops falling on barren trees. Over and over. 

Sharp chunks of failure and disappointment scattered across the floor, the bottles are nothing more. 

All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Humpty together again.

Sometimes Silence

They say the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. I haven't forgotten yours. Not yet. 

It's been so long that I fear you've changed. I'm afraid the memories deceive me. I'm scared that the one I left and the person I meet won't be the same person. I'm afraid that this won't be a rekindling of two souls, but an awkward exchange between two equally wounded individuals who barely know each other anymore.

But I haven't changed, I can promise you that. I'm still the same way you found me - broken and alone.

My mind is full of everything I've ever wanted to say to you; I wrote it all down so I could remember. I have it all planned out. I replay the moment over and over in my mind, as if it's already happened: you walking through the door, a smile on your lips, your eyes electric and piercing, and your voice. It's sweeter, smoother than I remember. Your very presence is soothing to my aching heart. And then I would spill the beans, I would tell you everything I was too timid to say before. I would come clean about me. About you.

I sit where I can see the door clearly without being too obvious. The butterflies in my stomach nearly fly from my mouth in a nervous stream of excitement, my heart thunders inside my chest, threatening to explode. My eyes stray back to the door incessantly; I can't help it. I rehearse in my mind again and again, waiting, feeling, hoping, dying.

Time came and went. It was time to go home. I stand there, lost in the throng, alone in disbelief. Surrounded by people, none of them you.

Frozen beside the door. I can't leave. I can't leave you. 

I hit the door, I hear my name. I turn and you are there. No angels singing, no rainbows in the sky, no beating of my heart. Only you.

I find myself falling, falling into your embrace, a jumble of smiles and tears, exhausted and trembling, broken but no longer alone.

The words die in my throat.

Sometimes silence is the only way to tell you how I feel.