Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
The Approaching Curve
The deepening night couldn't quell the sounds of youth and excitement that erupted from the backseat as the sedan whirled around the bend in the dark. A red lunar eclipse and a desire to escape books, homework and responsibilities for a few precious minutes had driven the five of us into the hills on outskirts of the city.
Driving down the dark and winding road at breakneck speeds was far more exhilarating than idly gazing at the scarlet moon, and the silent hills echoed with screeching tires and howling approval.
Whoa, hey. Slow down, double take. That was something we hadn't noticed the first time around. Silence fell as we pulled around for a closer look.
Flowers, candles, cards, t-shirts, a box of books and memoirs, photos, a large balloon, each with the same picture printed on the front. One word was present on every image, every candle and every t-shirt: Sarah.
All we could do was stare, hands shoved deep into pockets. Various shades of pink on candles and flowers stood out in the beam of the car headlights against the darkness of the ravine below. The laughter and joy that had filled the night only moments before died right there in my throat. No one said a word.
Standing before a memorial that was supposed to represent seventeen years of life, my heart ached for Sarah, for a girl I never knew. I fought the lump in my throat as I thought of Sarah's family and friends, dealing with the sudden death of a loved one. But in that moment, I couldn't help but think of myself and the four guys standing there with me.
Driving down the dark and winding road at breakneck speeds was far more exhilarating than idly gazing at the scarlet moon, and the silent hills echoed with screeching tires and howling approval.
Whoa, hey. Slow down, double take. That was something we hadn't noticed the first time around. Silence fell as we pulled around for a closer look.
Flowers, candles, cards, t-shirts, a box of books and memoirs, photos, a large balloon, each with the same picture printed on the front. One word was present on every image, every candle and every t-shirt: Sarah.
All we could do was stare, hands shoved deep into pockets. Various shades of pink on candles and flowers stood out in the beam of the car headlights against the darkness of the ravine below. The laughter and joy that had filled the night only moments before died right there in my throat. No one said a word.
Standing before a memorial that was supposed to represent seventeen years of life, my heart ached for Sarah, for a girl I never knew. I fought the lump in my throat as I thought of Sarah's family and friends, dealing with the sudden death of a loved one. But in that moment, I couldn't help but think of myself and the four guys standing there with me.
The flowers and the balloons, the cards and the condolences--those could be for us. For me. Those t-shirts could have my face printed on them, those candles could be burning in my memory. This could have been our car tumbling off the road into the darkness below; our bodies being crushed, mangled and never found; our lives being snuffed out in an instant; our potential wasted and gone forever.
Only the eerie whistling of the night breeze and the uncomfortable shuffling of feet on the dusty road could be heard. The moon still burned red overhead.
~
The car pressed on faster through the night. It could've been the best night of her life. Or the worst. It was hard to tell.
She still donned the expensive dress that she had bought two weeks ago with her own money and danced in all night. It was a wonder she hadn't soiled it. Loud music and the smell of liquor poured from the car windows--evidence of a good time. Or perhaps something else.
Prom, friends, boys, dresses--maybe that's what filled her thoughts. The road swerved right and left and back again. Maybe she wasn't thinking at all.
Maybe she was living it up, making memories, going big. She had her whole life ahead of her but there's never a better time than right now. Or maybe she just wanted to forget, to escape, to pretend like it never happened.
"Live fast, die young" the song repeated, the bass thumping rhythmically. She tipped her head back one more time. The parents will forgive me. Or the parents just won't care. She certainly didn't.
The midnight wind whipping through her hair felt like freedom; the burn in her throat, paradise.
Up ahead there was a curve quickly approaching. She made no indication of slowing.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Symphony Rising
Among the many, out of the cacophony, a symphony rising. A symphony of one.
Strong and beautiful, moving and elegant, rising and falling like the beating of a heart, like the breathing of some giant living being. For a few sacred moments, we were lucky enough to lend an ear, to hold a bow, to strike a chord, to be enveloped in the rhythm, to sing with all of our hearts.
And then the final notes are struck--they are always written in, whether we want to see them or not. Sometimes as beautiful and dashing as the rest of the movement; sometimes as dissonant chords, off beat and off time, out of place, premature. Sudden and abrupt, they linger in the air and on the walls for several moments, frozen in time, suspended in space and disbelief.
And then they fall, crashing to the ground like heavy, unrelenting rain.
And then I'm left to my own devices. Kneeling in an empty chapel, singing to the sound of my own deafening silence--the futile beating of my bleeding heart, the frantic falling of my feet, my voice, empty, hollow, breaking. My chest is open and my body aches, choking and gasping for air. Exposed and naked, desolate and alone.
What am I supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you?
I am full of hollow echoes and empty voices--voices of the dead ringing in my head--what can I say that hasn't already been said? Poems to be read, flowers by your head... what am I supposed to do?
Burn the chapel, break the strings; it's all I can do not to scream.
And now I'm supposed to rebuild. Survive. Continue.
And the cacophony drones on, oblivious, enveloping all distinguishable sounds: no melody, no symphony, no song. A few were lucky--I was lucky--to hear what used to be. But now we hear it no more. And we never will again. Not within these walls.
Strong and beautiful, moving and elegant, rising and falling like the beating of a heart, like the breathing of some giant living being. For a few sacred moments, we were lucky enough to lend an ear, to hold a bow, to strike a chord, to be enveloped in the rhythm, to sing with all of our hearts.
And then the final notes are struck--they are always written in, whether we want to see them or not. Sometimes as beautiful and dashing as the rest of the movement; sometimes as dissonant chords, off beat and off time, out of place, premature. Sudden and abrupt, they linger in the air and on the walls for several moments, frozen in time, suspended in space and disbelief.
And then they fall, crashing to the ground like heavy, unrelenting rain.
And then I'm left to my own devices. Kneeling in an empty chapel, singing to the sound of my own deafening silence--the futile beating of my bleeding heart, the frantic falling of my feet, my voice, empty, hollow, breaking. My chest is open and my body aches, choking and gasping for air. Exposed and naked, desolate and alone.
What am I supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you?
I am full of hollow echoes and empty voices--voices of the dead ringing in my head--what can I say that hasn't already been said? Poems to be read, flowers by your head... what am I supposed to do?
Burn the chapel, break the strings; it's all I can do not to scream.
And now I'm supposed to rebuild. Survive. Continue.
And the cacophony drones on, oblivious, enveloping all distinguishable sounds: no melody, no symphony, no song. A few were lucky--I was lucky--to hear what used to be. But now we hear it no more. And we never will again. Not within these walls.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Stay with Me
No, thanks.
I got it.
It's okay.
I'm fine.
It's all good.
I'm just tired.
I don't need any help.
I can do this by myself.
I used to it.
I got it.
It's okay.
I'm fine.
It's all good.
I'm just tired.
I don't need any help.
I can do this by myself.
I used to it.
Monday, April 7, 2014
The Choice
Last night I gave up my dream. I examined all options and all possibility, every chance and every opportunity. They said there was no way I could succeed and thus no reason for me to continue. So I threw in the towel and walked away.
I awoke in a cold sweat--heavy breathing, mind racing; the towel still in my hand.
I awoke in a cold sweat--heavy breathing, mind racing; the towel still in my hand.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
March Madness
The following is a homework assignment that I wrote for a class.
"The term “billion” tends to be thrown around a lot these days: billions of years, billions of people, billions of dollars—especially dollars. The U.S. government has become quite chummy with the term and sum in recent times, spending billions of greenbacks with ease. However this March, the term became a household phrase once again for millions of sports fans around the nation.
"As if March Madness wasn’t already a huge deal in the sports realm, it became even bigger this month when investor Warren Buffett offered $1 billion dollars to anyone who could successfully fill out a perfect bracket.
"Until Buffett’s generous offer, for me, March Madness was just a phrase that was excessively thrown around on ESPN several weeks before baseball season came out of hibernation. Basketball is not my favorite sport, especially college hoops concerning large universities that I could care less about. But it’s not everyday you get a shot at a billion dollars for predicting the outcome of a few basketball games. So I signed up and joined the other ten million hopefuls around the nation seeking to win the big billion.
"The art of filling out a tournament bracket has become a science in of itself, with websites, TV, and radio programming dedicated to strategy and educated guessing. Casual sports fan that I am, I wrote up my bracket in five minutes by the seat of my pants. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky. After all, in 2011 NFL quarterback Matt Hasselbeck’s five-year-old son nearly pulled it off, maintain perfection into the third round and placing in the top 100 brackets out of 6 million that year. Young Hasselbeck made his picks based on the look of the schools’ mascots.
"What are the actual odds of winning it big with a blind pick? Probably like trying to predict word for word the contents of a book before the author writes it. A professor from DePaul University did the math: it’s roughly 1 in 9.2 quintillion (that’s 18 zeros). The odds are slightly better if you know anything about college basketball, which I don’t. I would mathematically have a better chance of winning the lottery, being struck by lightning, or playing professional basketball myself than receiving the golden check from Mr. Buffett. Maybe Warren is smarter than we thought.
"Needless to say, it is no surprise that it’s never been done: the world has yet to see a perfect bracket. This year, with upsets by Harvard, Dayton, Stanford and North Dakota State, the overwhelming majority of potential perfect brackets were destroyed in the first round—including mine.
"At the end of the day, the same ten million fans (including myself) will mostly like be right back in the same spot next March: glued to laptops and TV sets, rooting for their teams and filling their brackets. Putting aside all the numbers and the predictions and the upsets, ultimately we all just want to believe that today could be somebody’s lucky day. It’s worth a shot."
"The term “billion” tends to be thrown around a lot these days: billions of years, billions of people, billions of dollars—especially dollars. The U.S. government has become quite chummy with the term and sum in recent times, spending billions of greenbacks with ease. However this March, the term became a household phrase once again for millions of sports fans around the nation.
"As if March Madness wasn’t already a huge deal in the sports realm, it became even bigger this month when investor Warren Buffett offered $1 billion dollars to anyone who could successfully fill out a perfect bracket.
"Until Buffett’s generous offer, for me, March Madness was just a phrase that was excessively thrown around on ESPN several weeks before baseball season came out of hibernation. Basketball is not my favorite sport, especially college hoops concerning large universities that I could care less about. But it’s not everyday you get a shot at a billion dollars for predicting the outcome of a few basketball games. So I signed up and joined the other ten million hopefuls around the nation seeking to win the big billion.
"The art of filling out a tournament bracket has become a science in of itself, with websites, TV, and radio programming dedicated to strategy and educated guessing. Casual sports fan that I am, I wrote up my bracket in five minutes by the seat of my pants. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky. After all, in 2011 NFL quarterback Matt Hasselbeck’s five-year-old son nearly pulled it off, maintain perfection into the third round and placing in the top 100 brackets out of 6 million that year. Young Hasselbeck made his picks based on the look of the schools’ mascots.
"What are the actual odds of winning it big with a blind pick? Probably like trying to predict word for word the contents of a book before the author writes it. A professor from DePaul University did the math: it’s roughly 1 in 9.2 quintillion (that’s 18 zeros). The odds are slightly better if you know anything about college basketball, which I don’t. I would mathematically have a better chance of winning the lottery, being struck by lightning, or playing professional basketball myself than receiving the golden check from Mr. Buffett. Maybe Warren is smarter than we thought.
"Needless to say, it is no surprise that it’s never been done: the world has yet to see a perfect bracket. This year, with upsets by Harvard, Dayton, Stanford and North Dakota State, the overwhelming majority of potential perfect brackets were destroyed in the first round—including mine.
"At the end of the day, the same ten million fans (including myself) will mostly like be right back in the same spot next March: glued to laptops and TV sets, rooting for their teams and filling their brackets. Putting aside all the numbers and the predictions and the upsets, ultimately we all just want to believe that today could be somebody’s lucky day. It’s worth a shot."
Monday, March 31, 2014
Wanderlust
Pack your things, descend the mountain, fall back to earth. The hunt is over, the quest is finished, the adventure is done; it's time to go home. Wash your face, clean your clothes, mend your wounds. Back to the village, to familiar faces and worn footpaths, to routine and tradition. Return the hammer to the nail, the pen to the paper, the plow to the field. Family, friends, familiarity; sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. Again and again. But it's not enough.
Boots to fresh earth, rains crashing against naked heads, burdens riding weary shoulders, winds through unkempt hair, suns against broad backs, strong and sure. The world ahead, nothing else matters.
Stress in the eyes, coffee in hand, cars, people, going, moving, clients, bosses, typing, working, slaving, surviving, dreaming--dreaming. Back to the woods, back to the mountains, to danger and uncertainty, unknown and impossible; back to legend and lore, myth and mystery. Anything can happen.
The window calls, the horizon beckons, the eagle screams overhead.
Be here.
The sun never stops, rising and falling like the tide.
Longing, yearning, wishing.
Dreaming.
But it's not enough.
Boots to fresh earth, rains crashing against naked heads, burdens riding weary shoulders, winds through unkempt hair, suns against broad backs, strong and sure. The world ahead, nothing else matters.
Stress in the eyes, coffee in hand, cars, people, going, moving, clients, bosses, typing, working, slaving, surviving, dreaming--dreaming. Back to the woods, back to the mountains, to danger and uncertainty, unknown and impossible; back to legend and lore, myth and mystery. Anything can happen.
The window calls, the horizon beckons, the eagle screams overhead.
Be here.
The sun never stops, rising and falling like the tide.
Longing, yearning, wishing.
Dreaming.
But it's not enough.
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