I mean, I live in a box surrounded by other apples
I'm shiny and red; I even wear that stupid little sticker just like all the other apples
I fell off a tree, landed in a truck, and now I'm here
but your hand descends and then it leaves again, pushing me aside, picking all the other apples
slowly emptying the crate, leaving me alone at the bottom
because I'm not the biggest apple
because the wax has worn off and I'm no longer shiny
because I'm bruised and ugly
because of the hint of sourness that grows stronger and stronger with each bite
because of the worms that have begun to burrow through my insides
because I'm two weeks past my expiration date and should've been tossed a long time ago
It tumbled several more feet before finally coming to rest. Ouch.That one was almost too big to kick. But with the ground covered in loose chunks of earth of all shapes and sizes just begging to be given a good boot, the temptation was just too great. It's an excellent way to break up the monotony of hiking in the middle of the biggest desert in the country--plus it's the only thing currently keeping my mind off the blistering heat and wishing I was back in the air-conditioned tour bus.
Now it tumbles around somewhere in the bowels of my backpack, jammed in with books, water bottles, and my camera as I continue to walk new paths and see new horizons, soon to be joined by anything else I deem noteworthy enough to throw in my bag, recording and preserving both ancient and recent memory, all contributing to the weight on my shoulders. I caught up with my most recent victim and stopped to examine it more carefully, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath. It was still warm, faithfully radiating the heat of its native sun as I turn it over in my hand, carefully tracing its jagged edges with my fingers. Other than a bit of coloration on one side, it looked just as dusty and dead as the landscape around me. I dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor and everything tumbled out--all the accumulated dirt that slipped through the cracks and tiny bits of trash I forgot to throw away and a few gems I thought I'd lost or forgotten, along with the ones I'd purposely collected. I stood there in the middle of my mess scratching my head. I don't remember acquiring all of these--too busy collecting to worry about carry weight. One of the unforeseen problems of travel. How am I supposed to fit all of this in my suitcase for the flight home? Even worse, how in the world am I supposed to pick which ones to keep and which ones to leave? Which one is more valuable than any other?
True, it's been dead longer than I've been alive. But it's probably (definitely) seen many more years than I have--it could have been resting here for centuries or even a thousand years before I, traveling wanderer extraordinaire, forcibly removed it from its tanning spot (and now I feel bad for kicking it). Who knows how many civilizations worth of dust it accumulated before I nonchalantly brushed it clean Indiana Jones-style, or what historically significant person may have dragged his or her shadow over this very spot. And now, as I squeeze it in my historically insignificant hands, my DNA is mingled in with the dust of history too.
I repositioned it carefully on the shelf for the fifth time. It had to be perfect, my personal display of my most prized possession. Dust and desert were months and miles away but now I traveled the jagged edges as much as I could, both alone and with anyone who would listen.
I looked both ways and slipped it into my pocket like I was stealing priceless artifacts from a museum--because dust and sand make for poor security guards.
I brushed past it again. It's still right where I left it. My fingers don't dance in the ancient dust like they used to, no longer gracing its grooves once worn smooth by desert winds and now by frequent finger traffic. Sometimes it lingers at the edges of my vision or I get to mention it in passing but nothing more. Once a proud resident of a free land now lies a stale ornament on a shelf like a majestic lion rotting in a cage, muffled by the graying dust that settles over things that no longer move or live or remember.
~
I laughed sheepishly, almost embarrassed how quickly I passed over it without noticing.
"Wait, you went where?" he stopped me.
I picked it up off the floor where it had fallen, nearly two years since the very first time I stooped to retrieve it.
"You went to Israel?"
I turned it over in my hand carefully, tracing its familiar grooves and edges once more just like old times, no longer warmed by its native sun but by the grip of memory.
I smiled.
Can anyone explain to me that almost beautiful yet oddly depressing moment
when you watch the sun fall behind the mountains and descend below the horizon,
and all that remains are tongues of fire painted in the ever-changing sky as shadows begin to creep along the ground and darkness slowly consumes everything around you while your thoughts grow louder and louder by the minute
until all traces of the sun and its glowing warmth has faded away,
and you realize darkness has prevailed yet again
and another long night awaits you with hunger in its eyes,
I heard footfalls, quick and rhythmic moving in my direction and instinctively braced myself. When I looked up, I immediately regretted it.
I've seen it far too many times in my brief existence--two galaxies swirling about, minding their own business until they are inexplicably set on a collision course as if drawn together by some unseen, inescapable force or gravitational pull that feeds off the clashing of worlds and smashing of stars.
The streets are full of these "galaxies" set up in neat little living quarters not unlike mine, all in a line, all purposely facing the same direction to avoid such catastrophes. But some days it's hard to walk down the street and resist the urge to steal a glance at every passing window. I know staring is considered rude, but a quick peek won't hurt anybody, right?
As gravity pulls and distance shrinks, it grows and looms larger in my path, and I find it increasingly difficult to avert my gaze--his, however, is nowhere to be found. It's probably tucked away somewhere behind that expensive glass, or maybe buried in the glow in his palm, or even flirting with the space just above his shoelaces--it's hard to tell.
Oh! I've crossed the moat--now I'm at the front gate.
There it lies, beneath the typical assortment of decorations, distractions, and window dressings: the front door--the final frontier. It's amazing how much effort some people go through to hide it, and how much others put in to make it more visible--but if you pay attention long enough, you start to see the same doors on different houses. Although they come in all shapes and sizes, each one always possesses the same weakness: the little two-way tunnel of glass in the center, right at eye-level.
Yet, beneath it all, there is more. Something else lies beneath--something small and fragile perhaps. I can almost hear it rattling about in that uninhabited space masquerading as residency, like the echoes of a rock hurled down an empty well as scary sounds reverberate from walls that haven't seen the light of day for a long time.
And suddenly here I am, up the steps and on the porch, within arms reach.
Do I knock?
I lean in and carefully put one eye to the glass. At first, I see... I don't see anything. It's too dark. But as my eyes begin to adjust I begin to see shapes and forms, and then...
I jumped.
I turn tail and fly unashamedly away from the door, unable to hold my gaze any longer, retreating blindly back to the safety of doubled locks, blacked-out windows, and thick curtains. The walls around me shudder as he swooshes past my right shoulder and out of sight.
My hands won't stop shaking. All is quiet again except for the faint sounds of sharp breaths escaping my chest.
~
I looked up again. Mistake.
I see it coming from a long way off, just a single cloud on the horizon. But I know better.
And this time, she sees me too.
The space between us begins to do that terrible thing again--shrinking. But the cloud is multiplying and growing and moving towards me now in an almost gliding, sort of floating fashion. I blinked really hard; maybe the stale air in here is affecting my vision.
I pressed my face against the glass, trying to look through the smudges for a better look. Yup, it's still coming, racing towards me and gaining speed like a tidal wave as I look on helplessly from my little shack stranded on this deserted island with nowhere to go, no way of escape. It's overwhelming my defenses, climbing the seawall. I can't fight gravity; I can't slow these winds.
We're gonna crash.
Everything in me screams to bar the windows and lock the doors, but I can't move. It's like that cliche, slow-motion moment that lasts forever yet no time at all where I'm standing there waiting for impact against my better judgment. And on it comes, this rolling thunder, this explosion of motion and light.
Light. My eyes start to water from the sheer brilliance of this anomaly descending into my front yard; light and color pours in from the windows and seeps in through cracks in the door. Afraid to look and too terrified to pull my eyes away, I see her. She's here. The house begins to quake as she makes her way up the steps.
Oh no, you can't come in.
I finally convinced my stupid feet to move, backing away from the door as light gathers at the edge of the doorframe. I hear a commotion at my back--the trembling of the house has rattled loose everything I shoved into the back closet, and now they're awake and moving, falling and crashing to the floor. The windows clatter loudly as the locks clink and jingle in their bolts.
Beams of light begin to crawl about the room, investigating every corner--but not like the overpowering spotlights of a guard tower. These were small and gentle, fireflies searching, looking. For what? For who?
You can't come in. Not here.
This place is an unforgivable mess but if she comes in--no, she can't; she will destroy everything. She will be a tornado in the parlor, crushing my little arrangement, breaking furniture, and smashing it all to bits.
You will rearrange me. All without a word. With just a look--a glance.
I shrank into a corner and hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. For a guy who strives to be invisible, I am painfully visible. I sat there waiting for the front door to swing off its hinges, for my house to be destroyed, for the waves of this storm to wash over me and drown me in something so terribly wonderful.
Now she sees. Now she sees me.
I looked up and caught her gaze, strong yet gentle, soft but bright. The corner of her mouth curls ever so slightly, and for the first time in a long time I feel...
The lights begin to retreat from the windows and then disappears altogether as she brushes past my left shoulder. The house descends into a thick darkness once more, empty and bare. I sit on the floor alone in the dark, ears ringing, eyes full of light. How long I sat like this, I don't know.
I heard footsteps. I looked up. And then I got up and unlocked the door.
"Those eyes of yours could swallow stars
galaxies and universes
what hope did I ever have?" Heavily inspired by "Opia" The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig
No new promises, no fancy diets, no regurgitated resolutions. I always break promises, my attention span lasts longer than my diets, and I'm behind on my resolutions by at least four or five years.
We both know long before the new year rolls around what we should and shouldn't be doing with our lives, whether it be huge, life-altering decisions or simple things like "I should really spend less time on the internet" (which could also be life-altering). But we generally don't and won't think about those things until it's socially acceptable to publicly lay out a list of things that we know we probably won't see through to the end.
So let's not do that this year. This isn't my "resolution to not have a resolution". This time, let's keep things simple.
Whatever you (and I) know that you should be doing, just do it. Whatever action/lifestyle we know we shouldn't be doing, stop doing it. Or start taking the steps to remove said bad habit or addiction from your life. And all the good and positive things you've been doing or have already started, keep going. I'm gonna go ahead and quote Shia Labeouf because it's true: If you're tired of starting over, stop giving up.
Let's not wait until New Year's Day to start trying to fix everything. Just as the new year is a jump off point to start doing things right, so is every morning of every day--even every breath you take is an another chance to do right, that coveted clean slate that we're all looking for. Change isn't a one-time decision; it's a constant one.
Every day, every morning, every breath is a gift. Let's not waste it.
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.
