On a day much like any other, a woman went on a walk.

She briskly made her way down the avenue, smiling at the blooming roses she passed. The grass was a polished green, dew glistening like diamonds against the morning sun. She closed her eyes to listen to the birds. She opened them, squinting against the glow of the day. The world seemed brighter, her steps lighter, and her grin turned into a laugh.

Just as so, morning begat evening and the teapot's whistle echoed throughout the house. She quickly made her way to the stove to pour it into a gilded teacup. The liquid was a warm, deep bronze. It tasted sweet enough to make her melt. The aroma softened her face and relaxed her to the bone.

With the coming evening, the frogs inherited the day's song and made a jubilee with the crickets. Sitting down on her creaking rocking chair, she couldn't help but notice a shrouded figure standing beside her.

He was silent and still. Tall and lanky. The sounds around her seemed to soften, and the evening sunset turned to dusk. He nodded her way, stoic in his countenance.

She smiled at him, loving and tender. Rising from her chair, she knew it was time to retire. Before she left, a gentle touch to his arm signaled her farewell.

He watched her leave, motionless and observing. As soon as her patio door shut and the lights were turned off, he left to go about his business.

The steps he took were precise and measured. He contemplated, watched, and listened. The sounds of the night quieted until the air was laden with silence, one that weighed his anxiety down to torpor. In his languid gait he found peace.

He sighed, his walk progressing much like the other night. Looking up, he slowed his long gait to pause by a familiar rose bush. Leaning close, he softly inhaled the sohpisticated scent. The aroma brought him a memory of a dream long forgotten, tucked far away. Perhaps it was because she loved this rose bush. And this made perfect sense to him. But, oh! What perfection it was to feel the warmth that spread in his chest! He pulled away in haste.

With a perfunctory nod, and a good yank to straighten his jacket he stepped off once again walking the course. As he neared his destination, the very home he started from, the sun dawned and she welcomed him home, a golden herald with open arms.

This night ended like any other as he finished his walk. Another morning craned impatiently over the horizon. But this moment, the moment lost between worlds, between day and night, was quite literally magic. In these seconds he also lost his senses, much like the woman did years ago. Looking into each other's eyes, they lived a thousands lives before the morning so rudely intervened.

Though the day bekoned her, as the night did for him, the permanence of the emotion they carried as they walked their separate ways filled their hearts with tenacity. Yet again, during the twilight, they would surely meet again. And perhaps this time he'd finally tell her the thoughts he had on his mind.

Perhaps he didn't mean it

when he told me I looked sexy.

Perhaps his ring weighs heavier

on his mind than his eyes

on my body.

Or perhaps not at all

does he intend any harm,

or that he only meant it

in passing, like a greeting.

But perhaps isn't solid,

and provides no foundation.

So I am left to sink

in my perverse supersitions

deep into the darkness of the grave

that I continue to dig

with the dreaded word

perhaps.

I eat pie. Because I love the taste of

Shit.

But when they walk by, they say

It looks good!

Can I have some?

Every time I tell them no.

They always say

Why?

Casting glances of envy

And greed.

But little do they know

How horrible it tastes

Or how disgusting it is to swallow.

And oh! I so relish the pain!

Every bite I take, time I chew

Is time I would never choose to give away

Even if I was paid in short-lived gratitude.

But still, the moments come

And pass

And replay like antique vinyl.

There is one thing however that holds true:

No matter how many times

I tell them no,

someone has to eat it.

I’ve decided that person is

me.

Will you see me for who I am?

Or believe who I say I am?

Or invent who you think I am?

Or dream of who you wish I was?

Or fear who you thought I could be?

I have a future, just as I

have a past. Presently I cry,

for present is where beauty lies.

The moments rush past so quickly,

but you’re always captive to dreams.

You mask the me that I am now.

You wear a blindfold and allow

your illusion freedom. Somehow

I am the one who saves, endowed

with greatness. I am perfect?

I will always disappoint you.

Your expectations are askew,

and hide me though I’m in plain view.

The crucible born through your eyes

will be written on my soul forever.

The steps from person to person

doesn’t matter. I yet worsen

as the new is the same version

of what I left behind. I still

face the crucible from your eyes.

Parent, or be it children, they

still expect me to go “their way.”

How am I supposed to change today

to the invention they produced

through the crucible in their eyes.

I wage my war against the me

that they invented despite me.

I know it is hard to believe,

but even today, you haunt me

with the crucible of your eyes.

We wander through the recesses of life, hoping and begging and pleading for a winning investment from strangers. We wear our faces like masks and hide our hearts as if they were candy among starved children. And yet, at the very same token, we try to sell our identities to the world.

We chatter like concubines, sick with zeal over our fickle master. We lord our persona, though entirely lost to ourselves, over brethren more akin to us than we allow them to be. You want to be like me? Good. Let me remind you how powerful and omniscient I am. I’m like God. In fact, I am God. We all fight over a golden throne that oscillates between reality and figment. I got closer to it than you did. Want to know how?

Prattle. Bicker. Argue. Debate. Ugliness has never been so loud. And we, we are the ones that settle in the muck and grime of our human envy. Like pigs we bathe in our deceit and greed. Our waste. Our pride.

I lost my way once. I was blinded like a fool. I draped achievements, reputation, money, and material things over my eyes. I poured them thick like wool, and tied them around my head with doubt and fear. I dared not look at the beast that hid in the darkness inside me, the thing that cradled my heart in a cage of teeth and claws like needles.

Day after day, I wore my blindfold like a badge of honor. I was proud of myself. The lowest I ever sank was the day I was happy to be lost. Lost in the world, in myself, drowning in my privilege.

But one day, an ember of the fire that once lighted my past caught inside me. I couldn’t say what it was that lit me up that day. I don’t really remember. It was small, like a smile from a stranger. Insignificant, like a butterfly landing on my shoulder. And like a far-off memory, forgotten in an instant. But it was enough to catch fire on all the death and rotting inside me. It burned my beast, set my heart alight, and destroyed my blindfold from the inside out.

I cooked, feverish with enthusiasm. What was trash melted away to reveal the glistening gold that was buried deep inside. I was softened, purified, and my eyes were opened.

It was in that moment that I found it. What was lost for so long. What I lacked in the chaos and the turbulence. My compass. My map. My anchor. My light by which I saw the world.

I found my hope.

As I sat on the precipice of a revolution, the pipe dream I thought so far away sat languidly within my grasp. I reached for it.

The rest is history.

I like to wear sweat pants in autumn. A nice pair goes a long way, and the ones I wear always make me feel the best. Especially as I walk down the sidewalk in the nippy air, watching the vibrant hues of trees ready to shed their leaves. Some had already done so, and the leaves were swept into neat piles by the main road. Throughout the day, people would walk past them and disturb the immaculate pile that sat unnoticed beside them.

I enjoyed watching the people that walked by.

Thigh boots. Skinny jeans. Sweater vests. Knitted scarves. I like to see everyone in the ambers, the crimsons, the earthy browns--the cascading colors that carefully wrapped our naked, aging bodies. People watching, with the outfits and the colors, was a very entertaining past time for me. I like watching. But something told me I wasn't one to participate. And I never will have the chance to, anyways.

Unfortunately, I died a month ago. The sweats I still wore from that tragic day was the outfit I'd spend eternity in. I've accepted it, quite quickly actually. There's not a whole lot to consider when the option has already been taken out of your hands. I appreciate that. Not having to spend too much time worrying about how you look, how you walk, how you talk. To some degree, I finally have relief.

However, moving on was an entirely different problem. I walked down the sidewalk, passing by the coffee shops. My nostrils filled with pumpkin spice. I missed that smell, the taste too. There are some disadvantages to being dead, especially in autumn. I sighed. I forgot what a pumpkin spice latte tasted like. That was more frustrating than I anticipated. But, among all the other frustrating things I have encountered, I liked how simple that felt.

My name? Forgot it. My parents? Don't know them. My past? Who knows. But the most exhausting thing plauging me constantly, to no avail, was how did I die?

Wandering, ironically enough, helps me find the memory I have lost. The pumpkin spice. The people dressed in shades of sunset. My reflection in the windows. I hoped that as the winds of chance pulled me and my aimless wandering continued maybe I could find out all the answers I craved.

But until then, I was content to settle for the people watching. By far the most enjoyable moments are when I see the shocked look of people that pass through me. Something told me they must have been cold. But that was mostly because nobody wore sweats. Sweats are so comfortable in autumn. They are my favorite thing to wear, even as I walk lonely in the bustling sidewalk.

Sometimes I doubted--was I really dead? Probably, I would always decide. I was unsure what this level of invisibility meant otherwise. I wasn't hungry. Wasn't thirsty. Didn't feel tired in the slightest. I just felt empty. And I missed what it meant to be a part of the lively people that walked briskly around me.

I was like the pile of leaves, sitting next to the road. Dead. Unnoticed. Empty. As I lay down next to them, I was surprised at my dismay when I wished I was wearing something more colorful than grey sweats.

Sometimes people are like butterflies. Pretty, prim, poised and stunning. They sweep in to life with confidence that the breeze they ride is sure and steady.

And there are others like spiders. Sleek, lethal, confident and cunning. They spin meticulous webs honed with professional precision.

I've seen many spiders clash with butterflies. I've seen a butterfly torn by the wind. I've seen a spider's web destroyed, and with it a home.

And the worst of it all--I have seen spiders try to fly like butterflies, and butterflies try to crawl like spiders. Our livelihood depends on our identities. And yet there are those that try to survive as something else, simply because they cannot see themselves for who they really are.

Why do we waste so much time fighting with one another when the greatest challenge is the war we have within ourselves? Why do we pick sides, align against another, and pursue disgrace to strangers when we are entirely lost to who we are. I want to guide home the hearts of people who have lost their way. But who am I, to fight for which I can never possess?

I'm neither a butterfly nor a spider. I'm a moth, whipped into a frenzy by the light, careening in the symphony of night. I chase a dream, an ideal, which waltzes parallel to reality. Careful, collected, and innocent, I dance among the stars, far away from the cold, hard ground beneath.

The ironic beauty of perspective is granted to those who watch rather than partake. I watch my insect bretheren fight amongst each other, wishing only that I could tear my flapping form away from my moon for but one second. Could I help? Could I make a difference?

The days pass, the moon sets and through all of this there is one truth. We are all so small in a world of giants. If only we were to find a common ground that we could see the beauty and the intelligence in our differences.

Would that be so hard? I mused so quietly to the spider that hovered over me. It considered for a moment the challenge I presented. I died that day, but I started something deep inside my kin. I planted a seed in the spider's heart. A seed that would someday birth a new generation of spiders and butterflies that would share in diversity.

Maybe then we would know peace.

I may not know you yet. I still may not come to know you. I may have met you already.

Life is so wild. We have no idea what is waiting for us on the other side of our mountains and valleys. It would be rude of me to expect anything when the slow and steady journey is made beautiful in each detail that's revealed.

Though that be the case, it is comforting to know that when I do meet you I have grown into a woman that I'm proud of. She's walked through both heaven and hell, battled demons that brought her to her knees, and in spite of it all never gave up. I have fallen in love with her.

I'm sure you'd love her too.

A bell. She once heard it often. It was a chime that heralded joy and comfort. She remembers it fondly though she only hears it now in her dreams.

Last Christmas her grandbabies got her a windchime. It was small, delicate, quaint. She still listens to it on her porch, rocking in her chair. But the wind was fickle, coming and going as it pleased. It didn't have the warmth she so missed. And though she would hold her hand out to grab hold of it, the air would slip past her fingers every time.

She once had a guest so loving that it would ring a bell for her all day. Though it was but the smallest of its virtues she has come to miss the small things too.

But now the house is quiet, and the only ring she hears is just a ghost in the breeze.