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Cura

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I need to heal. I feel this in my mind, body, and soul. I shake and fret over moments so small that I sometimes feel on the edge of collapse. Though not crushing, it’s the sting from when you get scratched too deep—the pain that permeates and pulses. I push it down but even then I know I carry it with me. I need to heal, and I hope this is the first step.

I’m so worried about the damage of unraveling that I push down and compartmentalize the pain to keep me away from the struggle. This, though, cuts me off from something just as important: an expression of spirit. I’ve been neglecting it for some time. Making excuses about why I have stayed away. I couldn’t deal wit the feelings of beginning as it brought back all the memories of yesterday that feels so unsettling.

I’ve been fighting for so long that I am afraid I don’t know how to live outside the emotional battlefield. The stresses and scares of my experiences pervade me in such a way that I feel physically resistant to doing the things I need to do to help myself. So I come back here to put words on a page in the hopes that I can start to dig again into my spirit and push forward beyond my limitations. To find a space to be free of strife and live a life I am meant to. It feels like a tired song or a neverending story, but at the moment, I know no other way to heal.

These words split from my fingers to tell me something more, that I’ve been holding too much in and that now is the time to set myself free. To forgive me for the life I have lived and tell myself that it’s okay to have not measured up to who I wanted to be. It’s never too late, but don’t hold onto the image of yesterday to forsake the promise of tomorrow. I can’t help myself; it felt so sweet back then. The ravages of time felt like they took their toll, unfairly weighing on my face and body like a ship weathered by the constant sea and storm.

I know there is no going back; the past is within the past, but could it not have been more gentle in its transition? It makes me so afraid of working towards my dreams because of the pain I experience to get to this one.

But what does the cost matter if you were willing to pay it. You were willing to jump knowing that not all things in life come easy or work well. The pain you feel on your soul is a remark of a spirit that stayed true to itself despite the difficulties. A worn and beaten statue does not tell himself of all the injury but all the moments it learned to live through.

This way I too need to be true to myself, do I really want to live a life without difficulty? Would stopping now fulfill my journey of dreams? I know the answer is no, but I don’t remember where to begin again.

IPursuing a dream is the journey of a million steps, and what gets you there is to keep walking. There are moments when you will need to bandage your feet, take a moment to heal, and appreciate what you have accomplished along the way, but the only way forward is through.

Be kind, I may falter, as I begin this journey anew.

A Knotted Thread

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I feel as tangled thread and string. Whose lines have become taught and twisted from years of neglect, with risk the break should force be thrown asunder. All these ties are muddled together precariously, seemingly impossible, and inevitable at the same time. I look at my life, which all used to sit so uniformly driven to a single point now fraying from the pressure. I feel as if I am coming to point of needing to make sense of which of these filaments needs to stay or go. Which ones I need to safeguard and others which may just be thrown away. For now I sit, pulling on these strings, attempting to undo these snares and coils. What have I let myself become?

I’m so confused about this life. The infinite possibilities of a life well lived have created disparate paths to follow, and yet I feel both pulled everywhere and nowhere all at once. The hope is to find one string and grab hold, but which one to grasp? One that takes me further away from this place, full of mystery, wonder, and work, or one that is full of familiarity, ease, predictability, and experience. So far, my choices have come up with slack, as the cords I’ve drawn lead me to the echos of a thread that may have been but were cut short through the collision with someone else’s destiny. That is no fault of the thread, but it does leave me standing alone, needing to return to this pile of unanswered questions and looping destinies.

Perhaps I should be like Alexander the Great, cutting the Gordian cord and getting rid of this awful business, but what would I be left with? Unhappy people and shortened strings. It’s the kneading and proving that consumes my time. This determination to understand the difficulty before I lift a hand to fix it. But with each passing day, the knot remains, and my potential path moves further from me. I feel I am being left behind by this destiny I had invested so heavily. I’m afraid that I will find myself nowhere and that all this leads up to nothing. The mounting anxieties plague me as my accounts dwindle away like sands of an hourglass, knowing full well that eventually, my time will be up, and I will be left standing empty.

I sit and think of these paths, hoping to divine a better future for myself. But in believing in some way that each step will lead me down a road of no return, I remain unmoved. Unsensible as that is, when left with so many choices, I freeze, wondering whether the path I have taken to this point was the right one. So many questions, being left with my thoughts and space is probably how the cords got tangled up in the first place.

I sit here, examining the knot, wondering whether it will loosen and let me free. I stand stalled, but time is running, and all that’s left is to pull.

How to Avoid Betraying Yourself and Your Dreams

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Dissipate – Suzukasuraimu

I’ve been stuck in limbo, not knowing where my future will take me. Or perhaps I should say where I would take my future. I’ve been in this space for a while, wondering where what it is that I am going for. Each page written or application sent, I wait for the inevitable disappointment that lies on the other side. My mind feels stuck in the corner at a party, looking out and becoming envious of all the others who are shining and shimmering. Why can’t I be the one who dances? What is it I’m meant for in all of this world? Where is my next step supposed to be? Am I always supposed to be on the outside looking into the world as if it were to be a spectator to this grand play, never to grace the stage as an actor or an act but simply a background concept in the lore of another history or to watch others make moves. These are questions I can’t answer but I feel like the weight of these questions daily. It drives driving me down and into dark places. I know that these emphatic expressions are the manufacturing of a mind in need, but how do I find my way out when the world feels so colorless and devoid of merit.

I’ve wondered for a long time if being stuck at this doorway to my dreams is simply an act using me using the wrong keys or me finding the wrong address. I knocked at the door that people assured me was the place I was meant to be. People tell me, “There is no way you won’t get in,” and “Of course, you deserve to make it to the other side of the threshold.” And yet, here I stand as it begins to rain. The wet and cold mixes with the lonely feeling knocking at this door. I can’t seem to be able to open door so all that is left if hoping someone will hear my knocking and answer.

“Don’t want too much,” I tell myself. “If you want, then they can take it from you.” Voices of my past pains haunt my steps into those future directions of myself. How can I keep moving forward through all this anguish? No matter how fast my mind races, If I don’t know where the finish line is, there is never any hope of getting there. I don’t want to betray myself, my past, or my future. I started this road, and I intend to finish it, but the lights have gone out, and all I’ve been doing is following my feet. Is this the end of my race or just another segment? Will I find the finish line or just the road? If I make it to the end, will I find that fulfillment or just the emptiness of the road?

I feel again like I am bleeding sand out of my hands. I feel as though I was never meant to create anything of substance. The towers I build will fall away with water and wind as I watch, trying to constantly keep them upright during a storm. What is my purpose if not to create? Will there be a transcendent masterpiece of just dust on the wind for another generation? Though these are dramatic acknowledgments, they feel so real within me.

More questions come that I can’t quell. Truth and fate seem to be beyond reach as I begin to unravel, not knowing the path forward. If this is my fate to wallow and wander, to struggle and suffer, then so be it as it gives hopefully to a greater purpose, but without the name of that purpose, this struggle and suffering become cruelty. If it is just by the circumstance that I drew the shortest straw, so be it, as I know the probability is always reset at the start of the game. But what is this game I am playing, and is it worth it to keep anteing up? Why am I playing by the rules of a game that seems unjust or unfair?

I am most concerned for my heart which is aching and tired. It’s through these tumultuous times that I have to express myself. My dream that has driven me forward feels battered. Perhaps it was a fool’s idealism that had driven me to this wall, like a recompense for believing in something. I can understand why it’s easier to not hold onto anything, but without it I would have felt empty for all those years. That’s the strength that my dream has had on me, and now my dreams feel so tenuously hanging by a thread as the world has taken turns swinging its ax.

I feel as though if I were to lose this dream, I would lose myself in the chaos of the world. It’s the thing that I have clung to so readily to get me through all these changes, and if I can’t even have that anymore, then what is it this poor frog will aspire to come out of the well? Can I keep rising on the ambiguous prospect of a future unknown? Like stepping into the dark, hoping that I will somehow find a purpose and path?

I don’t even know what I’m looking for, a sign or a victory. I feel as though victory would not echo in the hollow of my chest. That this void is an endless hunger that can’t be filled as it was never meant to be. I don’t know if anything could have prepared me for my life, and I probably wouldn’t have believed them anyway. Is it foolish or wise? Was I disagreeable or following the flow? Was I foolishly following the path of my own creation or did I truly stumble onto the road where I was meant to be? I have disavowed so much, risen to meet the challenge in hopes that I arrive at the top of this mountain eventually, but I don’t even know if that is achievable for me. Have I hit my limit? Is this as far as I go?

I am struggling, and I don’t know what will help. I want to be alone but never left to myself. I have become the contradiction that I hoped to smooth out. Why is it so hard, and why does it hurt so much? And why does it feel like if I take a step back I would be giving it all away? I guess that is the burden of a dream and the weight of a heart. I can’t answer any of these questions, but all I can do is tell myself to keep trying.

Nights of Broken Lights and Darkened Paths

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I used to want to be a hero when I was younger. Someone who shines a light on those around me, allowing people to see the world and all its wonder as I have. To be able to find hope in the most dire of situations, to find the silver lining in the cloud of grey, to finally understand their worth and the worth they bring to others. Though there is nothing wrong with these lofty goals, wanting to make the world a better place, but I realized that heroes can only exist where there is danger and distress. Where the time and seasons fall hard, and waves wash over our heads, a hero is needed to be there to right the wrong and save the day. It’s the light that needs the dark to exist. The greatest gift to a hero would truly be a world where they are not necessary. It concerns me sometimes that the archetype of the hero presupposes their rarity. That their actions would not be commonplace. That other would not act when the need arises. We need those to carry that role for others as the world will not take care of them on their own. Though this is a bit of a ramble, what I’m trying to get at is that is that there is not enough action and care to go around, that certain people need to shoulder that burden uniquely. That the world is a dark place for many others and people crave the path forward. It’s a lost place, with people feeling like their are surrounded by thick fog, feeling their way through and hoping that each step they take they are not getting close to the edge of a cliff.

It’s been my experience, as of late, that there are so many people who’ve just lost their way. People who have been out into the world with the expectation of competency but no explanation of how they are supposed to proceed. That they see the world and their situation as dangerous, disenchanting, and disastrous. That the bell rings in the morning and dispair for the continuance of life of the sets in.

I understand this completely because I’ve been there. The world, at times, is a harsh and unforgiving place, which leaves no room to know where to go. It feels like we fall behind because this mismatched expectation gives us no understanding of direction or feeling as if there is no time to grow to meet the challenge. We are stuck in a cycle, hoping for someone to reach out and tell us that we will be okay or extend a hand in help. It’s so hard to push forward as we feel alone in the universe, just trying not to get too close to the edge.

I’ve recently, for better or worse, taken on the whole of mentor and teacher to some very unexpected people. People who ordinarily would be perfectly capable on their own, but their lives seem to have burdened them with unnecessary troubles. But as time has passed, I’ve become more acutely aware of all those around me who feel the same. These people want that light, that guide, to clear away the fog and give them some semblance of direction. It’s just within these systems that we live that give no real guidance in the path to take, so we cling to the familiar in the hopes that the path we have taken will eventually lead us to where we want to go.

It feels like a breakdown in the community in which these problems can be voiced and care can be provided. I feel sorry at times for those who I help because I know I’m not enough. I can try to be the light in the darkness, but sometimes I feel like I am but a mere candle flame among the sea. That I, though, can help illuminate the way, but may not be able to show them their direction or help them heal from their wrongs. I’m scared that the advice I give will hurt them, that I will lead them astray. that they will regret their time and for listening to a fool like me. I just hope that I can be a warm presence to them. That I can give them strength to stand on their own. That one day they won’t need me anymore because the love and care they need will be right there for them.

I don’t know if I’m enough on this broken street of mine, with flickering lights and overgrown paths. I will keep you safe, but your journey is your own. I just hope I can help you be more of yourself and remember your strength because I think there should be more of you in the world, too.

Somewhere I belong

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Linkin Park’s music filled the headphones during my youth. Being played on repeat to a crowd of one, their music was like a perfect whirlwind touching down into my life when the world felt chaotic, and a storm was exactly what I needed. The music themes of hurt, pain, and loneliness resonated with the depth of my desperate struggle to feel wanted in all the years I felt alone.

As I grew older, I found spaces that I felt were supportive and people who were willing to support me. The need to listen to Linkin Park went away, and that feeling of finding something new to sustain me grew. Years past as I made progress towards feeling whole, maybe by pushing aside these much more difficult feelings. I sometimes wondered if I was actually healing or just pushing away these sorrows and hurts to a more manageable place. What I didn’t expect with all my progress is that graduate school would uproot my comfort, uproot my hurt, and make me come face to face with my trauma when I still felt unready and unwilling. Though we do not get to choose the moments of our lives that need to deal with our problems, there were certainly better and worse moments. Even through the miracle that has been brought about by the most recent freedoms, I still feel drawn back into that darkness, drowned in difficulty, feeling alone and out of place.

Sometimes, my life feels like I’m still that kid, listening to that cathartic rock/hip-hop music, wondering when my time will come. When the doors open, when I feel welcomed into a place I was meant to be. When my talents, time, and presence are all seen as an asset rather than just existing in that space. I feel warmed by conversations and don’t feel paranoid about whether or not my comments are received positively. Maybe that is too much to ask from the world, but it’s so fundamental that it feels wrong to believe it should not exist.

This is my great fear for the next stage of my life. That I continue to feel this unease as I move into these spaces where I don’t belong and miss the opportunity to find a better place for me. That the uneasiness is not a feature of needing to learn or adapt but a much more fundamental impediment of my character. That I have gone all this way just to be unfit for the spaces I have striven for. After all these years, I’m still that kid wondering when my time will come, and I will find these places and people I am meant to be with. When I finally self-actualize and feel like I could contribute meaningfully. Places where I’m not constantly second-guessing myself because of this fear of ineptitude. Is this just how academics are meant to feel? If so, why would I want to put myself through this. If this is a sign I don’t belong, then why am I so afraid of doing something new.

Though I have moved to a better place and found friends I can rely on, I sometimes feel still like that lonely boy listening to Linkin Park, but maybe that will continue to be my motivation to find someplace better. Someplace I belong.

The Art of Change and Growth

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In times of great change, when the ground shakes and the skys buckle, do we say that all this is how it is intended to be? Do we believe the earth,3 after such torment, was always this way? We just needed time to discover some humble facet that, through time has gone overlooked. When mountains rise out of the sea and when great valleys are carved, do we believe that nature is just returning to itself? I say this as it makes me ponder the essence of change for ourselves: can we truly change, or is this journey of continual self-discovery?

I’ve just returned from a trip, one of those trips that I always promised myself I would go on, and I am endlessly happy that I did. I walked across farway lands, across fields, mountains, and forests; all for the purpose of finding something I had lost long ago.

I can recount this tale in its entirety, telling you about each step I walked and the road I crossed, but those are simply the mechanics of a much more magnificent journey. A journey of the spirit and the soul let to wander and heal.

You see upon this path for me laid a great many things, but most important of them was time. Time to process and debate all these little things that I had experienced through the past four years when I had felt like I had lost myself. Time made synonymousw with distance as each moment was a movement, and so as I was moving through the world so was I moving through these heavy thoughts and emotions.

I started with rediscovering love, allowing it to pour from my fingertips onto the land. To pervade my thoughts, words, and action. To imbue itself in a sense of care that I feel an outpouring of myself. Through love I felt full as I continued to give it away.

Then I thought about the idea of quality and meaning, these things that can not be readily measured by scale or stick. These pieces of ourselves become disregarded as those around us have difficulty writing down or calculating their metric. The idea of being good, is so amorphous and yet so vital to being human that we write books and tales about how to achieve it.

I experience the anger that I hid away, behind rocks and stones. It came out on the heated road, alone on the way as this even hotter frustration pushed it’s way to the surface. To be heard, to be seen, to be experienced, as it was meant to be.

I experience that healing, this breath of the world. A peace only achievable, I’m convinced, when you allow everything to flow through you. To allow the pettiness and grief to run its course so that way you can inhale the world and all of its wonder. It allowed me to let go and in doing so find myself.

In the finality of this journey, I was filled with all I could describe as life, vital, chi, and anima. This spirit of things made me thankful for existence, thankful for the time and all I have left of it. It made me thankful for my moments and wishful for the future. It gave me back to myself and this feeling of being whole.

So I ask this question: Did this trip change me or did I just become more of myself? Did these moments impact me or was this all just there in the first place. Did a mountain form or a valley manifest. Did the sea come knocking to shape my body just as the world? Changed irrevocably, though made better by its presence. For that, I don’t know, but I am nevertheless grateful.

Overwhelmed by a Sense of Honor and Integrity

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Welcome Rain – Jiandeng Xing

I’ve spent most of my life attempting to escape, avoid, and overcome the complications that come from interpersonal relationships. You would too if you had the life I did growing up, where the instability of family, friends, and overall relationships would ensure that I was always alert and anticipating danger at every turn. To cope with this, I didn’t not get involved with others, even when their lives were difficult or they wanted me to come along as I felt that their life circumstances would somehow find it’s way back to me and punishment would be soon to come. Distance was king and I was born to be a ruler.

As I grew, experiences made me wiser. I had a revelation that distance can keep you safe but can’t keep you warm at night. The space between us all makes us feel cold and ultimately alone as the chill of distance whips away the only warmth we have left. A life trying to cultivate a small internal flame to reduce the occurrence of trouble with the flame of other people began to make me feel like a king of fools in a tower of ice of my own creation. I sought to amend this chill and became more involved with people’s lives, those of my friends, family, and acquaintances. I never lost the wariness of that time but it at least felt like I was moving forwards and allowing my heart and soul to thaw in the congregation of other people.

It’s been many years since this revelation and I have built a foundation where I find those who I have chosen to let in to enter my heart and warm its chamber to support me. Though I may not be the ruler of this domain, I am at least among those who are will me to walk with me on this journey. These connections I know to be indispensable.

To diverge for a moment, for the totality of this story to make sense, I need to address another trait that runs orthogonally to what I believe in this instance of distance, warmth, and ice. I grew up believing in heroes, not necessarily for the ultimate and sometimes outlandish way they would go about the world but this idea that the struggle against wrong and evil, though at times arduous, was worthwhile. That good in the world was a manifestation of intention and work, and a good life requires eternal vigilance. Through strife, we may be able to create something greater. Not all work may feel progressive but all steps at least move us in a direction of change.

This meant then when I saw something wrong occurring I would try to go out of my way to make it right. To find that justice. Though going through life rather passively at first, I have gained the courage to fight for good even at the expense of my comfort and myself. I have found solace in my integrity and found purpose in serving it. It was some something I learned and looked up to. This desire to live a life serving the light despite the challenges.

When these two things meet what I find is difficult decisions. When the beneficial nature of a foundation of warmth collides with stiff belief and integrity, it leads to a loss of self or of foundation. A need for the balance to become upset purposefully, to be an agent of entropy, to destroy a piece of my heart or a piece of my soul. It requires a sacrifice, to bring about harm to myself either way. To care means to open yourself up to trouble, and I found myself within it.

Then the question, which do I sacrifice. My heart or my soul. It’s been a conundrum that I’ve been contending in the long hours of my nights. Do I allow the entropy to escape, to wound my heart, to make things right but potentially shatter someone’s foundation in the process? Or, do I allow myself to allow this great injustice to eat me from the inside out, never allowing myself to live in peace? Though one of the options feels clearly more selfish as it may save me from a lifetime of suffering, it will do harm to others through harm to bring out a potential good. It makes it all the worse to parse whether the intention to choose it is to save others or myself. I am overwhelmed by the burden of this decision though I do know what I must do for the sake of others so I ask for the courage to push forward.

I avoided people to ensure I wouldn’t be stuck in situations like these as plays are fun to watch not to perform. Perhaps this comedy or tragedy of my life requires this act to set another journey in motion.

The danger of opening up is the vulnerability to hurt and be hurt. Though I do not know if the path I walk is correct, I will walk it with my head held high as that the best I can do. To walk with integrity so I continue forward. Though it pains me to do this, I don’t regret walking forward because I at least know who I will be once this is all over.

Cold War Kids

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Water’s Edge – まぬが

People say that the cold war ended in 1991, but for me, it started in 1992.
The day I was born, the battlefield began, not with fighting and disruption but rather through a dissolution of what other kids find as a firm foundation to live life upon.

I do not remember this union, though I am told that it existed through pictures and memories of all those who had the opportunity to experience it’s ephemeral existence. No, for my sister and I, what we knew was shouting over the phone and proxy wars between two people who had said until death to us part but would like nothing more than to be apart at death.

I can almost perfectly recollect the wars that were fought using children as a weapon, swinging us back and forth, with each strike damaging and dulling our delicate mental health. To this day, I look around and wonder what little eccentricities may have bloomed from the battlefield of my mind. How many unexpected scars and traumas are waiting to be awakened in the myriad of moments I have yet to experience. With no way to determine or avoid distress used to brace myself constantly for the cataclysmic collision of conflicts that would crawl it’s way into my cranium.

I had been reflecting on this recently, about the way I never truly understood a sense of normalcy because my normal was made so askew that I believed mountains were valleys and valleys were mountains. Though I have since learned this lesson, I am left with this sense the “normal” life will never be within my grasp. Like a fish living in water, I will never fully understand the nature of the bird that was given a chance to fly.

I remember the days in and days out when I lost who I was, I lost choice, I lost breath, and most of all I lost all that was left. I became the puppet who you could pull the string and carry out a messy pantomime of what I believe to be a functioning human being. I remember the voice of those friends who told me that I would no longer be able to play with them because it was too hard to keep track of my schedule. I recollect all the opportunities that faded away because arranging a meeting became too much of a hassle. I still have engraved the moments I missed because I was not allowed to exist in a way that made sense. I lost so much I became obsessed with perserving all I could keep, but like sand on the beach, all that I could hold would ultimately wash away when the water comes in.

I wasn’t until after I returned home from college that I sought to find some solace and peace in the chaotic sprawl that had become my life. Even now, there are wounds all around from the damage done by everyone involved. Patterns of behaving that have no hope of a resolution. I find, though, that recognition of humanity in those superpowers that lead the fight as a way to cope with the travesties I experience growing up.

Though I recognize our faulty lives and acknowledge the inadequacies that pervade those who had a hand in shaping this situation, I can tell you that I still feel the sting of disappointment, even when the expectation is failure. Perhaps this is the last semblance of childish hope that stokes the light of a small candle within me.

I found acceptance in my unordinary life, though sometimes I wish things were easier. I may never know what it will be like to not have family drama or conflict, though I can be one to champion peace and understanding.

I can’t say every moment I lived was terrible, and I have nothing to look back to fondly, but like a flashing bulb, my dark memories still light up the ceiling as I lay in bed at night. I know that though the war may be over, its effects are long-lasting, even when I am thousands of miles away.

A Last Song For Duo

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I’m going to try and put into words, this experience made too ephemeral, this moment crafted premature, this time intended for never and not yet but arrived just the same. Oh Duo, for how I miss you. How dearly I cannot say for language falls short in constructions of eternity and the infinite. These memories and moments with you seer beneath my skin, for forgetting, is a sin and I intend to be a saint. Though I’m sure this prose is more for me than for you, these words stand as a small testament to you and our time together. Though I can’t hold you any longer, I hope that this passage will preserve a piece of you everlasting.

What can I truly say other than I miss your large bright green eyes. Oh, now they used to look at me like I was home. A place I feel for me I hardly know but for you was within me. This peace I had because I was able to provide for you something that I had long forgotten myself. This yearning, I feel and wish I would see them truly looking at me one more time. That love I felt when you would do was almost comedic in character because how could it have been? I had always felt so undeserved, but you paid no mind to my insecurities and faults.

It’s in that memory of laying with you, and how you revised the way I slept that I found peace. The way you insisted on laying between my legs felt so warm and weighty that in my absence, I cannot sleep. I burn for the way you used to keep me in bed long beyond my morning alarms. The way I would play tardy with you, and the world would pass us. I savor the moments for I was with you because for those moments, I felt whole with you in reach.

It’s in your soft fur that my fingers can still touch. The way you would acquiesce to my whims, begrudgingly but trusting. The peaceful confidence you displaced traversing the world. The way your brother relied upon you to make sure the sky was not falling, and that there was always a warm place to lay his head. The way I knew you would always come back around so I would never need to chase.

I wish I could wake to you. Those visions of it all being a terrible dream and that it was only a manifestation of a worry gone too far. For my days have gone to grey waiting for you to return through that front door that you left through. For that night I can’t escape, that stain on the concrete and grass; that deep red turned to various shades of rust and grey. Something broke inside for me that night, and I don’t know if it will ever be made right. I pray for you every night that you come home and pray that if you cannot that you at least are happy someplace else. Oh, how I miss you so much.

It then a tragedy of that night that these flashes of the pain of memory keep these bittersweet memories sufficiently somber. Through their experience, I become darkened further because how can a light like yours be put out. Like others in this situation, I blame myself, wishing I hadn’t let you out that night because I didn’t; you might still be here. I can’t escape you but nor do I want to. I just want the pain to finally subside so I can enjoy memories of you without this inexplicable dark from arising. A pain that is both a curse on my heart but also a blessing of your existence. I know with time, I will heal, but that will not make me yearn for your soft fur and heavy frame any less. It’s my arms I wish you would still be, wasting and watching days go by, making life a little easier and more worthwhile.

I remember when you first came home that I used to lay awake at night, making sure you were still breathing. I would sit there watching your tiny frame anxiously until I could see that hearty breath in and be relieved that you were still there. I would worry you would be gone from me any moment, but when that worry stopped you were gone, and I didn’t know how to pick up the pieces. That night I carried you and had hoped you were warm. I saw end the end of your breathing, and I felt you and your soft fur grow colder. I wish I knew to do more, but I was helpless in front of this fate.

It’s unfair, and I know life is never that way, but why did it have to be you. The blood on my clothes and the towel I wrapped you in, markers of a life that could not be spared. I suffer the trials and tribulations of the world knowing the punishment should fall on me but in a split moment, the world collapsed around you for no more reason than it feels to prolong a certain sense of wretchedness. I would take the world on my back to protect you from harm and yet I could not protect you from danger and chance. What purpose could lie in this, a lesson that could not learn some other way. That is to say I miss you, so dearly that don’t have words to describe. I would trade it all for you and I wish you were still here. I wish above all else that could see those bright green eyes look at me again and have those mornings with you. Oh for how much I love you Duo, I always have.

At the end of this, what I wish I could tell you is
until the stars burn out.
and the sky goes dark
I will always love you

Goodbye Duo, I didn’t deserve you, but you came to me anyways. I will take care of Hero and everything else. And I hope, deep in the purest place in my heart, to see you again.

Hoping for Wishes and Wishing for Hope

/ fatesalchemist / Leave a comment
Snow by Pascal Campion

I don’t know how to speak to hope, with the words I put to the page never seeming enough. The only reason I want to speak to hope in the first place is that I’ve been thinking about hope, or the lack thereof, in both myself and the world around me. It’s like gravity pulling dreams and aspirations down to the ground and burying them beneath the soil. It’s like a force is speaking little messages to people, telling them not to hope or pray for wishes because wishes are for the lucky and hope is for the foolish.

But what is hope except for a wish not yet to come, a part of our heart speaks out so loudly that ask us to take a chance on the world and its wonders and believe that more is possible? Hope is what the architect sees before the building, the engineer sees before the machine. Hope is an extension of the dreams but… dangerous thinking that is, because to aspire to leave your neck out to get cleaved and those who forsake hope, survivors of the dream guillotine, don’t want to get hurt again.

I can understand this apprehension and this desire to abandon hope. As you get older the world continues to test the willingness to hope and more of your life feels as if it were to be a graveyard for dreams. Those who are lucky, seem to be blessed in some way by the universe to continue forward unimpeded, but the for the rest of us, it feels as if every day we spend climbing mountains.

I’ve lost hope in people and institutions while I’ve been living in this stateless place. Maybe I’ve been an idealist all this time because I’ve been fortunate enough to guard my heart and hope enough not to get ravaged by the hands of time. Now my heart lays exposed and bloodied by the experiences of the past few years, marred and marked about the failings of hope and effort. I’m sure there are some that will believe that the death of ideals and dreams will give way to a clearer view of reality. Those who believe that setting the bar low only provides a more accurate view of the universe. The people who call themselves realists have been beaten and broken by the cost of dreams, see the world as one broken place and that if they dare to dream that dreams would be dashed and only pain would persist.

Maybe this is why I can’t stop myself from caring because I stop caring about this world and others that I give way to the death of my dreaming. That if I lose all hope and persist entirely without the expectations of others or the future, all that would be left is a shell of myself who goes through the motions without an end in sight. That it’s this foolish hope about the change in the world, that someday we find can find a better way and my efforts mean something that keeps me looking forward and coming back to the table.

It’s hard though, to hope in a place that has done nothing but balks at my dreaming and my aspirations. To call only for persistence through extraordinary circumstances as a solution. To feel isolated, alone, and not to be taken seriously. I can understand why I have so much hurt with hope because hope is the knife that continues to make me bleed. It’s the belief that things will get better here and that all my experiences have been a string of bad luck and not the result of my failings. Hope has me believe that the future is calling, and as long as I work towards it, things may go my way. It’s hard to continue to be as I feel hope as I experience the cleave of dream guillotine regularly. At times it feels as if these people and places are avatars of the universe acting like an executioner of my dreams.

I know the power of hope, though small at times, keeps me persisting ever longer with the belief that my continued progress will get me to eventually meet my dreams. I haven’t given up but man… it’s been hard, and at times I find myself hoping for wishes and wishing for hope.