Spare

Dear Reader,
Do you ever get that funny feeling? Where you're just so upset you're biting back tears? But it's almost like you're about to throw up? Or like you're starving? Or like you just want to sob or eat or throw up or something? And your tummy just feels all jumbled? But you just shove it all down and pretend it's not there at all? That's how I feel.
Do you ever feel like you're just a spare? Like, a spare tire? Shoved in the trunk? And you wish, oh how you wish you could ride shotgun, or at least, in a seat, like a normal person. Like somebody who's going somewhere, somebody who others want to be there. Not the extra, forgotten, last-minute-shoved-in-the-trunk.
Or maybe, the problem with being shoved in the trunk, is knowing that you're a last chance, last resort kinda thing? And nobody actually wants to talk to you? They'll just humour you for as long as you pester? Nobody actually wants to have a real conversation and listen, because nobody really remembers you're there at all?
Yeah. That's how I feel, too.

Museum

Bright. Colors. Screaming. Loud. Whoa... Echoes. Huge. Ceiling. Kids. Running. Museum. Exhibits. Learning. Discoveries. Experiments. Electricity. Light. Anatomy. Weather. History. Hallways. Stairs. Arrows.


A man. He's wearing the logo. Standing. Talking.
A group of people. Listening. Also talking.
Anatomy. Exhibit. New. Hamster wheel?
Human sized! Man. Inside. Running. Whoa...

The wheel whirls around him. Screens monitor his pulse. Breathing rate.
Magnificent display... Human endurance... Power of... The words fade out.

There's a girl. Staring. Something about her expression draws me.

I step closer. Then I realize why. Shes in a wheelchair. Her own legs are useless, shriveled, balancing on the footrests of the chair. She seems to have no intention of leaving, having planted herself directly behind the hamster wheel, instead of in front, with the rest of the crowd.
She stares at the running man with a harsh intensity. Her forehead furrows, in an angry, determined sort of way, but her eyes light up with something different. Hope.

Girl. Staring. Hope. Hopeful. Running. Entranced.
Hope.

Drowning

I watch her, fragile, small, young, pale, paler still in the icy reflection of the pond. I do not know her. I do not know where I am. All I know is an overwhelming sense of responsibility for this girl, that I'm supposed to protect her. But from what? She has skates, I realize. She is skating. It's a wonder to me she does not fall, her bony ankles wobble threateningly under her. The sky is cold and ashy, everything seems faded in the surrounding grey. I can hear something, just barely. A cracking. The ice is cracking. But by the time I step onto the ice, it's already too late.
Suddenly, I am the little girl. Flooded with panic and realization, I try to step back, falling over myself, flailing skinny limbs. The ice is cracking beneath me, and in the next instant, I'm falling backwards. The water pulls me under, icy and thick, pouring in my lungs. Looking upwards, I realize the shattered hole at the surface is an eerie blue, silhouetting my outstretched hand.
Yet, I'm not all her. I'm still the guardian, watching her. I can feel myself drowning and watch myself being pulled under at the same time. I watch her sinking, her face frozen in the mask of hollowed fear I put on. The cold sinks in for the first time, along with an empty sense of failure. Her fingertips stick out of the water, just barely. I vaguely realize I could pull her out, but I remain staring. Another though drifts over, that the ice will freeze like that, just her fingers stuck above the ice.

I sit up quickly, heart pounding. A dream. I exhale, and realize I'm freezing. I pull the blanket up from the foot of the bed, and I'm shivering, even in the humid summer night. I press my hand to my face, it comes away wet. I'm crying.

"To see someone drowning in your dream suggests that you are becoming too deeply involved in something that is beyond your control. Alternatively, it represents a sense of loss in your own identity. You are unable to differentiate who you are anymore."

Who am I? Am I the girl I watched drown, overwhelmed? Am I the failed guardian? What's out of my control? I settle myself, trying to lose myself again in sleep, when I suddenly realize something. I didn't struggle. As the girl, I let myself fall, more entranced by my fingers than panic at drowning. As the guardian, I didn't pull her out, instead staring at her hands. I didn't fight death.
I lay awake. Sleep does not come.

To the Beautiful Girl

In the morning, the bathroom is harshly lit, and I stare back at the painted face in the mirror. I do not recognize myself. Suddenly, out of frustration and anger, I turn on the sink, and splash the cold water on my face. Looking up again, the mirrored face is distorted, black eyes dripping down blotchy cheeks. Empowered, I splash more water, scrubbing off the face that matches everyone else. Gingerly lifting my face from the towel, I recognize my own smile in the mirror.


To the girl staring through racks of clothes. Do you think you're beautiful? You can't be older then 11 or 12. You haven't even hit puberty. Yet, your dark hair is bleached a platinum blond. Your nails are painted plasticy pink, and your gangly arms are plastered in bangles. Do you think that makes you beautiful? A tank-top. Torn shorts. An expensive-looking purse, plastered with designer labels. Do you think you're beautiful?
I can see you staring at me, judging me through the fabrics on hangers between us. An older, chubbier girl with frizzy curls, no makeup except for dark red lipstick, in overalls and an old tee-shirt. I can see the disapproval in your eyes, but your glossy lips stay shut. Would it shock you to know that I think I'm beautiful? Or would it surprise you more to know I'm staring back?
I see something in your eyes that you might not know is there. Even outlined in black liner, caked behind eyeliner and clumpy mascara, there's a childish uncertainty.
To the girl on the other side of the rack. Do you think you're beautiful?

This I Believe

I believe in stopping. Not just slowing down, or taking a break, I mean fully stopping. Every now and then, I think that everyone needs to take enough time for a full stop.


When we were little, my brother, sister, and I, we were loud. We were messy. We made noise. We moved fast. I might find my brother trekking muddy footprints across the house as he paraded around the dead bull-frog he had scraped off of the driveway. My sister would engage herself in her "masterpieces", flinging gallons of paint onto construction paper; ruining carpets and wallpaper in the process. Me, I was a mastermind of battle and works of construction, pulling apart whatever I can get my hands on in order to string up whatever fortress tickled my fancy. Whenever we all got out of control, my dad would march up to us with this big swinging gait that he had, like he owned the world. My father is a pretty big guy, and when he wanted our attention, he got it. So he'd march up to us, the whole room would shake, and usually, it'd pull us out of our own worlds enough to whip our heads in his direction. But every now and then, it wasn't enough and we'd go on parading, and painting, and creating a general ruckus. It was at times like these that my father would plant his feet on the ground, and bellow, "FULL STOP!"


And so, we stopped. And suddenly, my brother would realize that his prize was actually a crushed amphibian, and sister would realize that her hair was now painted green, and I'd realize that a colander didn't really function as a helmet. I learned this from my father; when you take just a moment, and fully stop, just freeze everything, you'll see everything around you in a whole new way.


Even now, far from construction paper and childhood, I can still hear my dad's voice in my head, telling me to "full stop" when I need a break. It might be during a fight, or when I'm sad, or simply acting loopy. I need to take a deep breath, and stop. Full Stop.


It's not always enough just to slow down enough to balance multitasking. It's about being able to freeze everything you're doing, and step back in order to look at the world. Whenever you bite into something really delicious, you know how you close your eyes to enjoy it more? That's your body's way of stopping everything else so you can focus better.


Everything today moves fast, people run blindly through their lives, but I believe in stopping. Fully stopping everything around us to really see what is around us. Take a deep breath. Full Stop.

On Relationships

"9, 10, 11, 12, 14... Wait, where's 13?"
The car bumbles along the uneven road, searching for a number that doesn't appear to exist. Suddenly, a glimpse of red catches my eye. As my mom and I drive closer, it seems to grow bigger, flourishing its own branches, electric among the somber green around it. We roll to a stop, staring up in breathless awe at the twelve foot masterpiece. Planted there is a trio of steel girders, painted flaming red. The massive metal curved around itself, seemingly alive, stretching out its arms like a tree above us. "I think we're here," she whispers. A few minutes later, we're inside, sitting across from a quirky redhead. Her hands move nearly as fast as her mouth, gesturing wildly about the room. We're surrounded by more metalwork, compliments of her husband. She's my new voice teacher. We discuss old teachers I've had and as I explain why the last one didn't work out, I realize that it's just like a relationship. We were together, it didn't work out, and we broke up. Everything in life is a relationship.

I suppose that even those of us who'd rather withdraw, tuck themselves away and avoid others, those who are scared of dating or romance, must end up in a relationship. Going to school, having friends, dating, having a job, driving a car, everything. Our entire lives are built upon other people, impossible without some form of commitment. To live requires commitment. We make choices.We take chances. We're human.

Jhai Jhai

You'd assume she was disconnected. Her own world fits into a bubble, bouncing and shimmering with her energy. Her big brown eyes pulse with excitement, her face framed with shimmering bits lining each ear. Each day poses a new adventure to her, but you'd never guess how much those beautiful eyes saw. She can sense anything off balance, no matter how small. Don't bother trying to pretend, she can read your mind. And why bother? She's brilliant with advice, and a great shoulder to cry on. For anyone who needs her, her twitching fingers calm down enough to hold them.

Two words. That's all it took. And she could tell.
"What's wrong?" she pressed.
"Nothing, I-"
"It's those boys isn't it?"
"Don't be ridicul-"
"You like him."
And with a sigh, I tell her everything. And she lets me. She picks me back up and sets me right side up.

Isn't it funny how she can hold so much pain, yet never show a scratch herself? But even if one could, nobody dare ever rain on her parade. So march on, my dearest. Smile, and march on. And thank you.

Missing Lewis

We study each other through the glass, his fins swirling the water around him. He blinks at me. Slowly, his mouth opens, and he blows a bubble. As it floats to the top, I can feel my heart grabbing in my chest. It pops. Wolfgang's a Betta, and trying to build a bubble nest, meant to house his offspring. Except, there will never be any offspring. He'll never even meet another Betta. I run my fingers over the surface of the bowl, and he follows them. When I pull away, he stays pressed up against the glass, watching me with his dark eyes.

The most painful part of an animal being sad, is that it's all they know. With people, we can pretend not to be, or blame others, or find a way to cope. But animals, they only know sad, an overwhelming depression that fills every part of them, and simply radiates pain to everything around them.

We just lost our duck, Lewis. His mate, Ping, couldn't be sadder. She won't leave the coop, she just stays tucked into her nest, wrenching heartbroken quacks into bedraggled feathers. Our dog, Jake, lays beside the fence door, waiting for a playmate who will never again come outside to play. Our chicken steps out, and he excitedly raises his head, clutching at the hope that this white feathered bird might be Lewis. I bite my lip as his head sinks back down.

Here's to you, Lewis. Your unmistakable squeak of a quack that always made me laugh. Your stunningly blue eyes. The way you dipped entirely underwater when you swam. The one curly feather that stuck out from your tail. The way you played with Jake and ruffled your feathers. The way you so lovingly protected Ping. Here's to you, Lewis. I love you, baby.

Heartbeat

My head lies curled up in my arms on my desk, so I can hear the tick of my watch, a gentle tug back into reality. It murmurs quietly, clicking metallicly. The bell sends me sweeping through the hallway, and I suddenly realize that I'm invisible. Without my telltale chaos of curls, I blend in, unrecognized. Later, they paint on someone else's skin, until I'm completely unrecognizable. The extra rolls of flesh aren't mine, and my own face is smooth beneath the painted wrinkles.

In the wings, I feel lost. I am not myself, where have I gone? Fear and sadness begin to well up inside of me, until I suddenly feel my heart, pounding against my chest. A gentle tug, back into reality, my heart. I am myself. And as it murmurs gently to me, I smile. I have found myself.

Wake-up Call

The hammock rocks back and forth, a searing orange in the earthen scene around it. My arms stretched over my head, my fingers and toes tangled in the strings. I can see the shafts of sunlight filtering through the trees, brushing over the soft dirt on the ground and lighting up parts of my skin. I'm surrounded by tree trunks, adorned with shuffling leaves and whistling birds. Rolling on my side, the hammock swings with a renewed vigor, and I shut my eyes, losing myself completely. Much later, I hear something moving in front of me. Opening my eyes, I find myself to be face to face with a white chicken. She cocks her head at me, ruffles her feathers, and continues to scratch at the ground. Laughing, I pull myself upright, finding the sun has already ran to the other side of the sky. Feeling strangely perfect, I return to reality, realizing that sometimes, all we need is a strange wake-up call.