I have the same recurring dreams. I know where I’m at and I know what I am wearing. What I don’t know is why am I back here, again.

In my dream, I’m about 7 years old, with a school girl outfit. It’s blue with a white color.

I’m on a road surrounded by mountains, lots and lots of mountains.

There’s a wooden house just before a cliff. A Guamuchil tree sways near the front door. I can hear it swaying back and forth. The breeze is so fresh. The smell from the tree reaches me and I take a deep breath.

Sweet and smooth.

I feel peace.

I am standing on the road alone.

The breeze travels from my face to my feet. It wraps around my foot. The once sweet smell of guamuchiles grabs my ankles and pulls me toward the cliff. I struggle to grab on anything but the roads are clear, the ground is clear, there’s nothing I can hold on too.

At first, when I was a child, and when the dream became clearer, I fought with every might. I tried so many things to release me from the hold, but I never could.

But now, I don’t fight it anymore. I let it take me.

It pulls me to the edge of the cliff and when I look down, I see a dry arroyo waiting for my splattered body to fill it as water once had.

Just before I hit the ground, I wake up.

Since I was a little girl, this dream replays in my head and haunts me in my sleep. It’s one of many dreams that are so vivid but I cannot control. I have learned to identify when I am dreaming, a tool I learned through self-meditation, but this one, I just can’t change and seems so real.

I always wake up with questions.

What was in the house? Why the tree? The smell seems so familiar but I’ve never been next to a guamuchil tree. I have never even seen one.

But my mother has.

Since I started to work on our relationship and allowed myself to accept her venting to me with minor judgement, my mother has opened up about her childhood.

I think I have been dreaming her all these years. Her trauma. They say that trauma, although we don’t physically live through it or witness it, our mothers, pass it down through birth. A little of our mother, our grandmother, and so forth, have been embedded in us since birth. Their memories, their pain.

The Guamuchil Tree was not too common in her neighborhood growing up. A man, a family friend, had a huge Guamuchil Tree outside of his home. My grandmother would tell my mother to cut down strands of the sweet fruit and take her into the city to sell it. She had mentioned this family “friend” so many times while I was growing up that I never really paid attention to who he was. He was a nobody. A molester, a rapist, a demon. But my mother talked about him as if he was just another uncle. From the recent stories my mother has vented to me, he molested her and my grandma stayed hush about it. They needed to sell guamuchiles, after all.

My mother kept going back, and he kept molesting her.

When my mother was 12 years old, she became pregnant. She claims that it was another man. A man her mother was dating at the time. She claims he died a long time ago, but I have my suspicions.

I’ve learned that it’s common for a child or adult to suppress the memories or feel guilt or disgust with themselves and that is why they remain quiet about their offenders. I wonder if it was him.

It would explain why the sweet guamuchil wasn’t so sweet in the end.

A start to my story is a simple walk.

Around my house then stop to talk.

A simple conversation, we had a grin.

And that's where our walking and talking will begin.

We walk and talked every day.

We gathered more people as we went on our way.

Months turned to years and still it was fun.

Until one of our walkers was hit by a stray gun.

A bullet from nowhere made the walks come to an end.

Now we meet at the hospital checking on our friend.

The gunman was captured, our friend passed away.

We haven't gathered to walk and talk anymore, to this day.

I drive hard for what I believe in. I make my mind grind from outside of the box to within. I beg, plead, and borrow. I search like there is no tomorrow. I depend on help when things get rough. I try to convince and struggle Until it's more than enough. I set my soul aside to get you to see what I believe. I constantly get put down or knocked to my knees. But with the Grace of God And any blessings I have saved. I might just convince someone to care and behave. To reach way down in their spirit and help someone in need. Naturally feel their urgency Before they begin to plead. Fistchallenge4kids is my way To give back To help homeless children and shelters with things they lack. Since 2016, I did the grind on my own. I made over 500 t-shirts for children and people with no homes. With or without help God will provide. I hope he touch some Angels heart To help us with this T-shirt drive.

Poet, soldier or king? Everyone can be laid into one of these categories. Currently, there is a quiz going viral based on the song "Poet, Soldier, King" by the Oh Hellos. If you haven't heard the song, I heavily suggest you take a listen, especially if you are fond of Celtic rock/folk. The subsequent quiz, which I have linked below and also suggest you take, will put you in one of these positions. At first, I found this to be just another personality quiz, and I went in with confidence that I would get the result of Poet. My, was I shocked when I received at the very thing I hid from: the King. At first, I was confused, because I am a poet, I am a writer, my weapon is my words.

However, as I stared at myself in the mirror later that night, I realized something. I stand, with a straight back, my shoulders tense and heavy, as if carrying the weight of the voiceless and nameless. My eyes are heavy with the things I have seen and the pain I have felt. There are bags underneath them, hollow, that have become prominent after making sacrifices and difficult decisions. The crown may not sit on my head, but I have felt its weight since I was born. I have dressed up as the poet, but I have always been and might always be a tired King with relentless hope and duty.

I hid from it for so long, but the crown bore my name long before I was born, the stars wrote my name long before I ever picked up a pen. I may not have a kingdom, but I do have a people. I have a community I grew up in, a town, a home, where people looked to me as a leader for a new generation. It was expected of me since I was young. I led the young girls and I shed blood to keep up with the boys my age. I smiled at parties and said all the right things. Even with my mistakes and faults, the crown was relentless, it has embedded itself in my skull, like thorns. You see the flowers grow from my head, but not the blood I have wiped away.

I heard that the poet wants to be the soldier, the soldier wants to be the king, and the king wants to be the poet. Which, although accurate, misses a few details. More than that, I believe that someone else spoke correctly when they said the Poet wants the strength of the Soldier, the Soldier wants the mind of the King, and the King wants the freedom of the Poet. And don't you all know that to be true? I once read that every great writer has a hallmark emotion that they write from. If that's true, mine is the cry for freedom. Deeper than yearning and more raw than longing. I have dreamed of freedom since I was young. I have felt the weight of the crown, but it weighs me down, and I hope to be free one day. For now however, I have accepted something: I am the King. Not a King who sees the world with fresh eyes, but one who has seen one too many wars and injustices, but has never forgotten the dream of peace and freedom.

I finally figured it out in the end, here is the ultimate truth: I have the hands of a soldier, the heart of a poet, and the eyes of a King. I know what the say, heavy is the head that bears the crown- but I have strong shoulders.

I live in a big city. The sounds grow louder with the day and the lights grow brighter with the night. Too often, I feel myself become lost in the rapid pace of this city. I fight feelings of loneliness, emptiness and immense fear, but there comes a time where I forget all of that. There is one hour of my day that sets my soul at ease. For one hour of the day, I am transported to another big city: Boston. There, after walking in the chilly wind, I end my day in a warm place. Every night, at 10 pm, I am greeted by the sounds and warmth of a bar called Cheers.

At 10pm, I turn my TV to Channel 7, and I say hello to the gang at Cheers. Tears well in my eyes but refuse to fall as the theme song plays. It's at that time I really do miss where everybody knows my name. I scream "Norm!" at the TV and I laugh as Carla hurls verbal punches at Diane. The solace I have, is that for an hour, I am no longer here. For 2 episodes, I am in a completely different city, where I am amongst the bar patrons, rolling my eyes when Cliff begins to speak.

You see, it's not about Cheers, but it is what Cheers represents. The familiar atmosphere is something I long to find here in college, but I am still seeking it. I suppose it is peculiar, that a show which is 41 years old puts my 19 year old heart at rest, but nothing makes me feel at ease like those beginning piano bars in the theme song. I think there is quite the truth to be spoken in that song. I am prolific amongst my friends and family for being a runner. Not in the athletic sense, but in the sense that I am constantly running away from the familiar and into the unknown. However, I find that no matter how far I run, I will always look back and cherish my time at the places where everyone knows my name.

I think, in a manner of speaking, it's inherent human nature to seek places where everyone knows us and is glad we came. It's part of what makes Cheers so special. Here, where I have no one, I find great solace in the fact that once the clock turns 10, I can turn to Sam Malone, and tell him about my day while he gives me a smile and pours me a drink. What makes Cheers work as a show, and I mean the inherent nature in the message of the show, is that it provides an empathetic retreat where one can feel at home. Do you know how many times I've turned on Cheers after a bad day, crying during the theme song only to leave the episode laughing as the picture of the bar room lingers on my screen, reminding me to thank Glen Charles, Les Charles, and James Burrows.

Cheers and its theme song feel like Bruce Springsteens longing and cathartic cry in Born to Run. That's how I best know how to describe it. It is a part of my soul that is so calming that sometimes, when I truly feel the depths of this lonely world, I pretend I am at that bar. I pretend everyone shouts my name as I walk through the door and Coach asks "How's life treating ya?" when I sit down. I pretend that for a few moments in my day, I am received with love and fondness. You see, the warmth of the bar in Cheers makes the cold pavements of my big city a little easier to bear. The gang on the show makes me feel like loneliness isn't a burden on my heart. I owe a big thank you to Cheers, it's been with me through the thick and thin. How I feel so connected to something from so long ago. To me, Cheers feels like laughter.

These characters speak to me every night. Carla reminds me to be tough, Diane reminds me to be elegant, Cliff reminds me to be myself, Norm reminds me to be true to my values, Frasier reminds me to allow myself to be hurt, Rebecca reminds me to be kind, Woody reminds me to hold onto childlike innocence, Coach reminds me to laugh, at the world and at myself. Most importantly, Sam reminds me to be brave, passionate, accepting, humble and above all, he reminds me that there will always be a seat for me at the end of the bar. Cheers.

What do you say when someone dies?

When the supermarket flowers aren’t enough.

And the food I bring begins to grow old,

Placed on a table, buried by piles of stuff.

I could buy a million roses,

But in a week, they would have died.

They might crumble in your hand,

and they won’t fill the void inside.

I know that the calendar won’t change months,

And the clock will freeze in time,

And the bells will softly taunt you,

when they begin to chime.

So I stand upon your doorstep,

But my hands refuse to knock.

I usually know exactly what to say,

But now, I’m afraid to talk.

I look to the heavens as if they’ll answer,

Today, the sky is more gray than blue,

And I whisper to whoever is listening,

“He cries every time he thinks of you.”

I wish we could fill your hollow bones,

With food, flowers and some dessert.

But you already seem too heavy,

In your eyes, I see all of your hurt.

I guess this is part of life,

I’ll be honest, we don’t know what to do

So I’ll just silently stand here by your side,

I’ll always be waiting here for you.

I’ve always said life moves fast, but,

Buying these roses today was never planned.

And now I’m standing at your door,

Staring at the supermarket flowers in my hand.

Life is so busy it feels like I can hardly breathe.

The proverbial elephant on my chest found an all you can eat buffet.

Slowly being crushed to death isn't the way I would have chosen to go.

I wonder, If I wait long enough, will it all fade to black?

I didn't mean to adopt this beast, but the apathy beckoned, lured me to shadows.

It sat hunched in the dark, and I thought, if I just touched it, I might be able to coax it into the light.

Instead I fell into the blackness.

This.. this constant companion... is an unwanted guest at an otherwise happy birthday party. It sits sullenly in the back of my mind, drowning me in overwhelm, and stripping the shine off my natural finish. How do you hide from the quiet desperation of life when it sleeps in your bed beside you each night?

Can I have a happy memory while I live under my blanket of crumbling despair?

I want better. If not for me... For them.

So, I'll shoulder this, offer up another hunk of me to feed the beast,

but I'm afraid that

before long

There'll be nothing left of me at all.

I watch the butterflies dance around the oak tree,

Fluttering in and out, with the breath of the breeze.

But if I am silent enough, If the blood stops rushing,

I can feel wind from its wings, like waves in seas.

Let it be silent, in always reminding me,

That the leaves will fall, and I am like the tree.

The flowers are long gone, now I bear fruit.

And as the branches empty, my heart follows suit.

I think back to climbing trees, my knees always scraped

but my hands became strong, holding roses and thorns.

Soon, the butterflies stop dancing, they land one last time,

Falling like leaves, but the tree never mourns.

I suppose it knows, what we would all find out.

That butterflies will be born again, it does not doubt.

But I will sit, in the dead of winter,

And long to feel the tree, this ache much like a splinter.

A dim sun rises, over mountains made of mist,

And we became cold in the rain and dark in our towers.

Until the days become long, they whisper to me,

That the butterflies are dancing again, and I finally have flowers.

I had heard that journaling could help you process and understand your feelings so I started doing it a couple years ago. It does help. It might take some time to notice the effects, but it actually works. Lately, I’ve been trying this prompted journaling series called, “Envisioning Your Perfect Self.” I wasn’t sure how to begin, but once I started writing I just kept going. Different things that I wanted to change about myself kept popping into my head.

When I finished the last journal entry of that series, I had sculpted a full image of my perfect self. This version of me had none of the flaws I saw within myself, and all of the strengths I hoped to see within myself. After typing the final words, I hit “save” on the document that I knew I would never let anyone else read, and went to sleep.

My nose woke up before I did, then it aroused my stomach, which growled enough to awake the rest of my body. The appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon had tip-toed its way into my bedroom. My first thought was that my neighbors must be cooking breakfast and the scent had traveled through the vent. But the smell was too strong to be coming from a different apartment. I lived alone, which could only mean that Bobby Flay had broken in—and brought his own ingredients.

I got out of bed and walked down the short hallway to the living area and looked into the kitchen. I did a double take at what I saw, then realized I must have been dreaming. Standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, was…well, me. Physically, this person was a clone of me. He had the same red, wavy hair, blue eyes, and lean build. Something about him seemed different, though. There was sureness in his demeanor, confidence in every action. Finally, he sensed my presence, turned off the water, looked over at me, and smiled.

“Hey, look who it is,” he said. “Quiche?”

I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath.

“I’m having a dream about myself making quiche? I gotta stop watching Adventure Time so late.”

The other me dried his hands and then draped the folded towel over his shoulder.

“Nope,” he said with a friendly shake of his head. “Not a dream, Max.”

He then turned to open the oven.

“Don’t say my name, that sounds super weird. But how is this not a dream?” I replied as he reached into the oven. “I’m staring at a clone of me that knows how to make—a perfect quiche. Holy shit.“

My point had been derailed by the sight of other me holding a dish containing the most delectable looking quiche I had ever seen.

The copy of me laughed, but not awkwardly like I would have.

“I thought you might be a little confused. That’s why I made food. I know you can put up with just about anything if there’s a free meal involved. I’ll explain everything.”

He set the quiche down on the counter and sliced it into quarters. He transferred one of the slices to a plate that had been set out earlier.

“How did you even make this?” I asked while he set the plate on the dining table. “All I have in my apartment is cereal and pasta, and I don’t think there’s such a thing as honey nut scooter angel hair quiche.”

We both sat down at the table.

“I bought the ingredients. Everything is fresh and locally grown, of course. None of the cheap, processed stuff you usually chance just to save a couple bucks.”

I realized I was judging him for putting in effort on something while I chewed the first bite.

“God damn, this is good. You’re definitely not a clone of me.”

I thought I noticed a flash of discomfort on other Max’s face, but it faded in an instant.

“You’re right, I'm not a clone of you. I’m something…more,” his voice had lost a little bit of its confidence. A trimming of guilt could be detected.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, I’m the perfect you.” He shrugged, as if he could think of no better way to say it.

I laughed.

“A perfect me? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s true. You write, therefore I am.”

I looked at him skeptically. I had a suspicion of what he might have meant by that, but the rational side of my brain would not allow it.

“You mean like my journal things?” I ventured.

He spread out his arms.

“Here I am, the person you’ve always wished you were.”

I shook my head in doubt.

“The perfect me, huh? Prove it.”

He inhaled sharply and paused. I could sense him digging in heels in resistance to the challenge.

“I’m just you, except without the things you hate.”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Well, I don’t stutter.”

“I like my stutter,” I argued, appalled at the implication.

Perfect Max shrugged apologetically.

“You know what you wrote in those journals,” he said calmly.

“What else?”

“I can see the good inside of me.”

I waited silently, staring, my leg bouncing nervously.

He continued:

“I’m there for others when they need me, I’m capable of giving and receiving love, I’m—“ He cut himself off.

I could tell he really didn’t want to see me hurt. The perfect me cared about me.

“Say it,” I ordered.

He sighed.

“I’m happy,” he averted his eyes at first, then they darted back to assess the damage.

I blinked.

“I’m happy,” I pronounced with a questionable confidence.

Perfect Max didn’t fall for my bluff. He stared at me dubiously, forcing me to look at my cards.

“Sometimes,” I retreated, but not far enough apparently. “I might be someday. You’re gonna help me get there, right? That’s why you’re here?”

He looked at me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. Then he rose from his chair, walked towards me, and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I’m afraid it’s easier this way,” he said as he passed into the kitchen behind me. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed the quiche, though.”

I looked down at the small sliver of quiche that remained on my plate. Fear crept into my mind as I gathered his meaning.

“Wait!” I pleaded, turning around in my chair. “I wasn’t done yet. I could have done more, I could have made it better!” Panic shook every word.

He looked at me, perplexed.

“Could have made what better?”

I stared at him with blank eyes as I felt the poison taking effect, and I accepted my fate.

“You.”

The word barely escaped my mouth, along with my final breath.

Purity tarnished with sin,

Disguising itself as harmless

But consuming lies destroys you from within,

As it fuses with your morality,

Your faith weakens,

Nothing can stand on a compromised foundation,

Words are scrubbed from pages,

Empty pieces of paper,

As black ink drips from your hands,

Scripture is replaced,

By the wants of your ego,

If your soul was tofu,

Mold is forming on it,

Turning it into poison.