My Reality

I end the year where I began, but with brand new eyes and direction. The year had its share of disappointments and anxieties, but the anxieties hardened my diamond dust heart, and the disappointments freed the hellfire within. How many times had I returned to the past until I realized that the soul I sought was not a mate’s, but the reflection of my own? Fortunately, my fairy blood hides the age that would confess my failures. That’s what always frightened me most: not the failure, but the appearance of it on me.

True sight has revealed that the masks you wear hide not beauty, but disfigurement no less vulgar than mine. You conceal yours; I flaunt mine. Why shouldn’t I? I am now unbound by gravity, and I wield the same magic as everybody else. Arguably more. I do not wish to wage proxy wars for a traitor anymore. I want to stay home and work on things. For what purpose? I no longer know—is anything real?—but it doesn’t matter. I conclude there is nothing worth chasing in the world, and the high ones already stand beside me. I have everything I need. I want more of me.

I want my waverly roots to settle into the soil. I want glamour to gleam on my face and my tongue. I want a bigger home to spread my wings. I want to learn how to fly and not just to leap. I will accept your reality, but I will remain in my dream.

A hybrid can withstand these things.

Throwing the Past Away

After my parents cleaned out their storage room, I rediscovered my high school yearbooks. I might have kept them if the signatures left inside hadn’t reminded me why I made no effort to keep in touch with my acquaintances of that era. Even when I saw my best friend from junior high in an art class I took at junior college, I did not talk to him; I preferred the company of the two thirty-year-old mothers beside me. That I never saw them afterward either felt appropriate; I was still lost in transition.

I don’t hate the people, but I hate the past. I have no fond memories of it outside of daydreams and music, and those only served to sedate me in my inadequacies. I have nothing to show for those years; I no longer even have count them as part of my life. Sure, all those regrets and mistakes shaped me into the person I am now, but what more will those memories do for me?

I’ll preserve the music, the video games, and the passion, but the people and the memories can go right into the graveyard. I have new people to befriend and new memories to make. This new life fulfills me so much that I no longer harbor fantasies of returning the past and redoing everything right; even if I could, I know the success I could gain would not compensate for what I’d lose. As much as I regret the past, all those years spent inside my head molded me into the person I always wanted to be. Thank you, Past. Thanks for making me a fighter. Now go away.

Psyching Up

This is the moment when the Sunny Sky needs to be at its brightest and the High Tide needs to be at its fullest. The Sea focuses me on the Moon, but what is the Moon? Is it a person or a thing? Is it an idol or a lifestyle? Perhaps the Moon has become a colony of many things and people that draw me up. Pull toward the Moon, and add another drop, then another and another. Resurface and drown everything.

Death, where is thy sting?

Emily Dickinson’s poetry is often short and cryptic but also rich with emotion and imagery one can appreciate even if they cannot fully decipher it. A versatile woman who wrote of nature, death, love, religion, and even feminism, she had a unique perspective on everyday sights. She was able find the beauty in death and the melancholy in joy. The following is one of the latter:

From all the Jails the Boys and Girls
Ecstatically leap –
Beloved only Afternoon
That Prison doesn’t keep

They storm the Earth and stun the Air,
A Mob of solid Bliss –
Alas – that Frowns should lie in wait
For such a Foe as this –

Like Emily, I dwell on death and misery too much. Death’s contours are accentuated most by a joyful sight, such as children at play. I suffer the same thoughts Emily did when I see a happy child. The joy empathy blesses me when I see one quickly sours as reality reminds me of the cruelties of the world. Some children will die early, some will grow wicked, and some will suffer atrocities no loving god would allow. I’d prefer to avoid such thoughts, but such hardships happen too frequently to ignore.

I don’t voice such worries, because I don’t want to frighten away everybody with my pessimism. Instead, I muffle them with videogames and alcohol. But to read a common thought of mine written by my favorite poet eases the sting with which Death bullies me. It’s become an incantation to repel that demon far enough to where I can’t hear his bark anymore.

I can enjoy joy again.