i miss the ocean

It's easy to lose yourself over time because being a person is a fluid thing. Whenever I feel empty, I wonder if it's because I don't knit anymore; I don't write poetry anymore; I don't write stories anymore, drawing pictures of the characters to satisfy my earnestness; I don't tell people what to do anymore, or give advice anymore; I no longer write imaginary speeches; I've ceased to tie a cape around my shoulders and pray for dragon wings; I  don't idealize childhood like I used to but neither do I respect the state of being that supposedly comes after.

The question is this, then: am I empty because I am decaying, or am I empty because I'm finally about to be filled?

Because now I dream vividly of torture and desire; I write letters to dead people and save them in a book; I draw pictures of the creatures from my slumber, solidifying them in my earnestness; I ask strange questions and listen intently to the answers, unconcerned about my own opinion; I battle between hope and horror for the human race; I think longingly of cityscapes and mountaintops, the bird's eye view and the terrifying freedom; I no longer attempt to put my humanity in a box, floundering with labels and understandings, trying to know myself and realizing that to understand the smallest part of the smallest animal is to know the universe.

A Pink Glowing Lamp Post on a Snowy Day

Today there was a layer of snow draped elegantly over the world outside my window. Tufts of white spiraled from the cloudy sky, dancing onto the flurry-crowned flowerpots; bushes and tree limbs ached and groaned under heavy loads, bending almost double in an effort to rid themselves of the proof of winter's prowess. Somehow, all of this happened while I slept, transforming the world into something alien and beautiful and timeless -- and though the moment that sunlight hits ice to reflect into your soul is infinite, the chilly flakes will die quickly, and February will pass, and life will continue despite their absence. Despite my slumber, or their death, or my death, life will continue infinitely for a moment and then stretch forever, so far outreaching to extremes that a moment becomes completely negligible. A snow flake's life starts and ends so quickly; but within that consciousness, if there be such a thing blessed upon a crystallized whiff, was there a brief eternity? I think about my own life and the eventuality of death, and I feel as if I'll never end...but I also feel brief as well, stunted, already finished.

A snowflake is so small. Thousands have slapped my windshield with puny malice, a pitiful display of strength that is wiped away by a mechanical wiper. The particles that compose the frozen tendrils of water are smaller still; perhaps the amount of minuscule components tends towards infinity. And just as they are immeasurably small, so the universe is immeasurably gigantic. It is all so small and yet so big at the same time. Maybe that's what the true meaning of eternity is; existing in a moment, being small and mortal and alone, and yet in that moment also being joined by the grand multitude of the universe, magnificent and endless.

early morning storms

Time has a stutter. June, inconsequential and carefree, flew past me in a ceaseless blur, a torrent of seconds that I found impossible to slow. Fourth of July was something I had looked forward to in a nostalgic and pseudo-patriotic way, but of course, it wasn't what I'd expected. Then, the pulsating shock of July Ninth, and lately, every minute crawls by me, hanging on as long as possible and then lingering in my memory to make itself last beyond it's normal life span; looking only five days behind me is like gazing into eternity. Has it really been only ten days since my life flipped itself upside-down? I feel like a different person, as if within these ten days I've been born and grown all over again in some other person's body, then reminded of the shell that I belong to. My thoughts are full of significant emptiness; my consciousness tiptoes through my mind and shies away from the things that disrupt the quiet, like I'm avoiding metal in the Operation board game. It's difficult to fit into my own skin this way, and looking in the mirror, I barely recognize the stranger in front of me; or rather, I mistake her for a sister or my mother. I haven't lingered long enough in this body to really get used to it again, and yet, this week has been...infinite. I can't imagine where more time can be found, when it seems as if ten lifetimes are stretched behind me with memories and insights to fill several more. So much emotion and energy has been spent that I imagine my soul to be old and withered, but none the wiser for it's age and silence.