When I was in the inpatient unit for the first time, the most startling aspect of my experience was not that a woman barged into my room with delusions that I was her sister. It was not that there were white supremacists talking about the race war. It was not that the veteran I was talking to knew about Eisenhower’s interstate highway project. The most surprising aspect was that in the inpatient unit, everyone there is truly equal. Few places carry this feeling, but the feeling is a mix between despair that everyone is equal in suffering and loss and a strange sense of camaraderie that the people who you are with understand you on a level the doctors and nurses never will. I never felt judged by the people who I talked to, even by those way older than me.

Despite the visceral repulsion I have to being in the inpatient unit, I do sometimes wish I could spend time talking to the people there. Each person I met had an unique story to tell. Each person faced unbelievable obstacles. I wish I could find them now and dedicate my time in getting to know them more, writing down their stories, and helping them on their own healing journey. I don’t have a desire to become a therapist or a counselor or a nurse or a doctor because the power differential makes it hard to have an honest conversation. I want to be a peer, another person in recovery, rather than a distant figure proclaiming cures from afar.

Stigma runs through our culture, but I think it’s a badge of honor to be a survivor. Adversity changes who you are to the core, but in doing so, it ruptures old beliefs so that new beliefs can grow. Compassion and gratitude can be what replaces what can never be found again. The people who enter the inpatient unit often have faced adversity that the average person will never know, but their strength is incredible. To step forward everyday, even while everything seems lost, is a sign of incredible willpower in the face of pain. I’m proud to call these people my peers. We are not “crazies” and “psychos”. We are not weak nor cowards. We are distinctly—and fundamentally—human.

When the fire elementals of Aeros are first brought into the world, an earthly flame is lit in a glass bowl on the beaches of their homeland. Shaped into being by the youngest priest of the order, the glass bowl becomes the vessel in which a new elemental will arise. Over nine nights, the young priest blows into existence a perfect bowl with its own fire breath. Decorated with the images of an unique story, each glass bowl represents the history, the aspirations, hopes, and dreams of the collective of elementals. The elders then gather to whisper the blessings of the ancestors, and from the ashes of those who came before, the runes that call forth life are drawn into the sands.

The magic that flows forth from the communion of the fire elementals is one sung through song. The occasion is reported to sound ethereal and otherworldly to the human ear, echoing for hundreds of miles, but, sadly, ever since the Great Flood, the number of fire elementals have dwindled so much that the song can only be faintly heard to those close by. Once begun, the song must be finished till the break of dawn or legends say that all will fall apart.

In the song of the fire elementals, the music is able to mould the fire into a distinct being filled with the combined emotions and character of its singers. As the music rises, so does the flame. As it bellows deeply, so does the flame bend softly in response. As the notes become light, so does the flame become joyful. As the notes becomes dark, so does the flame become weaker. Each member sings in its own unique voice and history. Often times, as one member sings the stories of the losses of the people, another may be singing the dreams of a better future. While the flames are drawn distinctly with the piercing calls of anguish, it is also melded into unity with the solemn harmonies of hope.

From this music, the flame grows and morphs. All throughout the night, the infant is sung to until it begins to grow so hot that the glass it encases begins to melt. In order to be born, the flame needs to channel its energy into melting down its protective shell and pushing outward into the cold air. It was this particular night that the birthing process was difficult as storm clouds grew near. The elementals grew unsettled and their music became shakier as they realized they chose the worst possible night to bring a member into life. The elders had made a mistake in their predictions of the sky.

The presence of fear spread immediately. The melody, losing its luster, grew darker and more discordant. The flame reacted instantly and started to recede, crumbling in on itself. The ritual can only happen once every century, and it seemed like this was a disaster. The elders cursed themselves with deep booms of grief. This was the end for their people, they sang. The adults pushed in response with rolling waves of despair, their anguish making the flame turbulent and chaotic. It was only the youngest priest who kept on singing with brilliant force. As a single voice among the darkness, it sang higher and higher, breaching the center core of light, and reaching towards heights that it never reached before.

The others watched as this young voice sang with the passion and hope of its own short life, against all the pain it was witnessing among its people. It heralded the deepest convictions and sang with redoubled effort as the storm clouds came nearer. Against the background of thunder, it spun the magic of the flame into existence against the pain. At first, it was just one voice fighting against the darkness, but as its voice grew more bold, the others saw its resolution, heard its call for something greater, something better, and they started to harmonize with its own daring heart.

The elders, having almost given up, saw this change spreading, and each felt a deep stir inside. With each voice joining in, their sorrows began to lift. Could this be the realization of their oldest prophecy? Their voices began to shift, blossoming into anticipation and determination. The Aeros will not die here, no. Here, they will make their final stand. With nothing left to lose, the group soared upwards with the melody of everlasting strength.

Just as the first drops of rain began to fall, the glass shattered and from the middle came into the world the Phoenix. Singing with heavenly beauty, it flew upwards and ignited the skies, pushing the clouds back in an explosion of flames, just as the first rays of the sun peaked over the horizon. The elementals watched in awe as the Phoenix wove together hallowed laments with unbridled joy, announcing to the world the miracle of its own birth.

The Aeros would be saved—nay—reborn. As the Phoenix circled around the beach, it shed its tail feathers and everywhere it landed, a new flame elemental would arise. On that day, a hundred new elementals would arise from the ashes of its feathers. The elders and the adults stood paralyzed by the beauty of the miracle it was witnessing. It felt like each moment was an eternity realizing itself in front of them. A hundred elementals in a day rather than an eon.

When the Phoenix finally gave up all but one of its feathers, it bellowed one last chord of harmony and burst into flames, dissipating into the dawn. The single last feather floated down to earth and landed onto the sand before the youngest priest. The song was finished, and when the stun of silence was finally over, the Elders knew they had much work to do to teach the many new members of their group the ways of the fire elementals. As they shepherded the new members in renewed hope towards their home at the base of the volcano, the young priest stayed behind. Facing the sun, the young priest held the feather in prayer and with sadness said goodbye.

When the adults asked where the youngest priest went after the song, the elders knew. They found the feather on the beach, and carrying it carefully, they placed it on the top of the volcano, where it blew up into the sky to never be seen again. On certain nights, however, the new children of the Aeros will hum a tune in unison, and the new legends say the priest could be spotted at the top of the volcano singing in ever-loving response.

It struck me,

that way,

when I first read

those lines about epigenetics.

It was when determinism

first evolved

into determination.

Genetics,

Those winding lines of DNA,

The salvation of some,

The damnation of many,

became the epicenter

Of a new world.

We discovered that

Environment spoke truth

To the expression of our bodies

It showed us a new light

That the world can’t just be stone-cold

Genes were not a death sentence.

Having a “vulnerability”,

was not the end

of the story.

These chains never were

Bound by birth,

Because it’s true:

Lifetimes of loss

Can end with you.

The illness of the mind

Was never trapped in these letters

Never found under the scopes

Of reluctant observers

It cannot be written

Like the murders of plot

Because maybe

Just maybe

Potential

Is the greatest risk of them all

There’s more when you’re raised

As the orchid

You’re meant to be.

When I look at you,

I see my ugliness.

When I accuse you,

I see the hate.

When I judge you,

I see the loneliness.

When I tear you apart,

I see the hurt.

Was there ever a separation

Between me and you?

To know you

Is to know myself.

To know myself

Is to know you.

Enlightenment:

The darkness

Is a shadow

Of myself.

They watched a lone soul climbing the Mountain of Eternity from the outskirts of the village. No one could tell who this person was. A hunter saw them climbing while out in the forest one day, and soon, many villagers gathered into the forest to try to catch a glimpse of this lone climber. An elderly man brought a telescope, and each took turns to observe.

The Mountain of Eternity stretches all the way up to miles of cloud cover that never leaves. Those who climb it are on a journey that may never end. The elders believe that only the foolish or the arrogant claim it is possible to reach a top because no one who has climbed the Mountain has ever returned after they breached the cloud covers. Many townspeople think they reach their end once they touch the clouds. The gods watching strike them down for their folly.

It takes at least three weeks for anyone to reach the cloud covers of the mountain, so a few curious people set up camp in the forest to observe. They wanted to see if they could witness the moment a person is taken into the heavens by the wrath of the gods.

The mountain, unlike many other mountains, contains caves that can go anywhere or nowhere. The climber often took detours and disappeared into these caves to only come out higher through an exit further up. The people were surprised such a climber would know their way so intimately among the caves. They wondered if this climber had explored these places before.

The strangest thing about this climber, however, was not that they knew their way around caves. Soon enough, the observers would be entertained by the odd movements the climber made. This climber would often times go back down and in zig zag motions before going back up again. Most of the movements seemed erratic and uncoordinated. Was it a dance or ritual?

The people joked that this climber was really a performer for the circus, and a few left laughing. News of this strange climber reached other towns quickly, and within two days, there was a small gathering of tourists with their own gear, watching them maneuver their way up the mountain. The people were curious, and they wanted to pry into this odd world they did not understand.

About a week into the climb, the observers noticed that the climber had slowed down and spent more time in the caves. Perhaps they were losing hope in ever reaching the top? The people were disappointed by this turn of events, and the crowd grew smaller. There wasn’t much entertainment in watching someone lounge away in the darkness.

By the second week, the remaining observers watched as the climber started to climb horizontally. Instead of climbing upwards, the climber was oddly going through great lengths of difficulty to move in the wrong direction, thought the adults. Although unexpected, the group did not reach out to say much to the villagers that left. There was no reason to arouse their interests in something so mundane. The kids, however, were strangely captivated by this change. The adults could never understand why, but the kids whispered secrets along themselves that they could never truly demystify.

By the third week, the group had diminished to a group of five people. They ate together, played together, worked together, and went to sleep together. They prayed together that this person would reach the top safely, and each day, they lit a candle for them. The youngest member composed a hymn for this traveler and sang it every morning. The oldest member painted the scene to memorialize the occasion. One member, the most invested, made a journey map that captured all the paths the climber took. But the third week came and passed, and the climber did not reach the top. The group—except for one—disappointed and exhausted and a little embarrassed, went home.

Many weeks went by as the climber danced their way across the mountains. The lone observer recorded all. In the sunshine, in the moonshine, in the snow, and in the rain, they awoke to their duty. No one knows how long this dance went on, but when it finally ended, on a faithful morning, the observer had watched as the climber breached the cloud covers and disappeared into the light of the sun. The observer finished the journey map, looked at their finished work, and wept.

At long last, they could see the meaning behind the wild and strange movements. The observer saw the message, but knowing this was only a message that only they would understand, they buried the journey map in the ground, and went home. In a few months, another climber would be spotted, and a new observer would be at their side. A new dance would begin.

I once read that the brain, having been built to detect constant dangers lurking in the dark, is a prediction machine. You feed it information, and it spits out an emotion to feel and a behavior to follow. I used to treasure my brain until an accident left the software on an infinite loop. No amount of interruptions could cancel the error box. A visceral memory floats up, and it is lost with no where to go. It is telling me I’m overloading, but I just feel it as grief.

The brain likes to seek out information that it can never grasp to try to predict the impossible. It is a reaction to uncontrollable pain. The brain and body wishes to never be in the same situation again. So it tries to predict. And predict.

And predict to no avail.

This loop is what keeps me imprisoned, but there is respite. Through the act of creation, I come to slowly move aside the past. For every word I write, my brain grasps a little less, accepting more that ambiguity, loss, and the uncontrollable are woven into life. Like all stories that I write, there is no goal, but each word flows closer towards a end that tells me that everything will work out.

The best way for me to predict the future is to give up the cage of control and to write the words that will free me.

The footprints on the sand

By the edge of the waves

Are saved once by luck

Before her greedy hand

Shifts the sands blank

Under the glaze of moon

The waters come alive

The Sea swallows up the lost pier

And recollects her treasures

Rolling them into a belly of deep

But still, she yearned for land

She longed for the world beyond

For something more than sand

So she stretched her body

To eat and eat just a little more

Season by season, year by year

Her ferocious appetite grew

She relished the acres of grass

The trees topped her meals

No walls could hold her back

She laughed as the people cried

Every decade was a royal feast

There were houses, near and far

Cars and boats and trains and bikes

She riled her currents up to all

But the young grew old and wise

Torrents of rain came in anger

She lifted her arms wide and open

Smashed her fists onto their towns

And ate them as they left

When the hurricanes took over

And the world fell quiet

When floods swept the plains

Finally, she caressed her dear Earth

Here and forever more

Under blood red of elder morning

The force draws me slowly

Slowly it takes over

Nodding away

Away, Away Only lulls me further

Into comfort in shutting down

Slowing down

The world becoming murky

The thoughts molding

Into one the softness of

Lines blurring into each other like

Watercolors blossoming on puddles

On the canvas of consciousness washing

Away the lights of awareness

there

In the darkness, dreams draw me into

Falling under dark skies of mysteries

Of soothing

Soothing…

Soo…

thing..

sleep

Pop goes the rock

Jiggling an‘ sizzling

Around in my mouth

My world, oh, it’s fizzling

Every piece is a reverie

A spark right on the mark

Those fireworks showing me

A wonderland park

Every dish made delish

Flavors bold and savory

Best friend of zest, at my behest

No need for bravery

Sprinkle a twinkle

Of buds and laughter

Oh—where the mouth goes!

Can you have anything rather?

The question of which is better, perfection or trying one’s best, implies that perfection may be a worthwhile endeavor. What is perfection, but an attempt to achieve the impossible? Perfection, everlasting, would be a permanent state of the pure, but can such a state even exist? In a perfect world, I imagine perfection as emptiness. A world absolutely devoid of the unwanted, yes, but empty of life as a result. Perhaps, then, a mistake or a flaw is an opportunity for the vibrancy of life to flow into the void?

Without imperfection, where would there be the beauty of renewal—a commitment reaffirmed to remind us of what matters? Without imperfection, where would there dwell the humility of human growth? Without imperfection, where would the love of compassion and forgiveness live? It is through the cracks of the darkness, do we see the light of day. Without darkness, where would twilight end and dawn begin?

Perhaps it would be wise to see the good in imperfection—to embrace the world as made of constant change rather than abhor it as made of constant mistakes. It is not about reaching perfection that matters but rather how one embraces the imperfections in life. In this way, trying one’s best is the rightful path, not only because it is honoring effort, but rather, through implication, it is also leaving space for the beauty of our own limitations.