My best friend and I found ourselves, once again, traveling by car across the country. I didn’t need to, but I jumped in the car to spend the last few days that I will have for a while with my best friend.
There’s a feeling you get when you are home alone in the middle of the night. A dash of panic and you try your best to remind yourself to breathe.
Dating today is awkward. The modern age has taken an old game and turned it into a new experience. The development of technology has given her the ability to know who you are, what you do, your age, height, and favorite hobby before she even meets you, and it all has become perfectly normal in the eyes of society.
Their stories are important and necessary to hear in order to understand the multi-dimensional painting of human society. In order to grow, we must learn, and in order to learn, we need to hear about the “other” by sharing their stories.
Still, I sit outside with my laptop open and facing me like an outspread book filled with my scrawling that decorate the pale white digital pages with dark letters. I pause only for moments at a time to grab the metal canister of boiling hot green tea sitting on the wooden table in front of me to warm my core and propel me further into my fit of writing.
I looked up at the dark, dried, and ominous dead trees looming down with their bare bent, and scraggly-looking branches stretched out wide. I continued my stare with my eyes transfixed to gaze upon the contrast of the dark geometric lines against the much lighter gray-bluish-colored sky. The combination of vastly different colors gently whispering that they are, in fact, the embodiment of a beautiful, yet lifeless, winter’s day.
The memory fades away with every breath breathed in its direction. The very act of recalling the memory destroys it piece by piece as though my mind attempts to chisel itself away. However, instead of an uncovered work of art from polished marble, I’m left with the rough sections of jagged rock lying in ruins.
Sometimes I find myself missing literature that I have not and probably will not ever read. I sit in the immaterialized section of reality hidden deep within my conscious to see the book of poems—forever lost—that I will never see.
I refuse to use the grey mug sitting in the corner of the room. I glance over in its direction and watch it staring at me…
You cannot avoid the bright greens from the various herbs and spices sprouting in medium-sized round pots and planters. And when you brush up against the springy shrubs adorning the sides surrounding the outdoor space your noise is gifted with a smell of fresh basil and parsley that lingers long enough to encourage a small grin from your mouth.