Somedays I wake up and rot like an overripe fruit in my bed.

I stare at the bumps caked on the ceiling like acne that's been caked over with foundation.

I feel the blankets rubbing against my bare legs like wind against a cactus.

Sometimes passion is dormant and winter is long. The seasons don't feel like seasons anymore, but just a perpetual state of grey, dull emptiness. Of longing to just get up and do something meaningful.

I have to close my eyes and even when I don't want to and reluctance has built a strong bastion to shield my Desire and Motivation--I pray.

I pray and I thank God for waking me up in the morning.

Even if I am a nobody. Even if when I climb down the ladder to my bunk bed I feel like I am a landfill of wasted time. It would be easy to tell me as long as I am trying there is worth in me. But I've stopped trying.

Pathetic.

Loser.

Quitter.

JUST FUCKING DO SOMETHING.

Blank eyes. Taut throat. Silent tears.

I can't even pray out loud sometimes because I hate the sound of my voice. So I whisper it softly in my head because even my thoughts are saturated with disgust.

Dear God, Thank you for this beautiful day.

It's raining. I like the rain.

Thank you for my comfortable bed and my windows that overlook my grandma's garden. I like looking at the flowers.

You know, flowers don't have to do anything. All they do is sit on the ground and wait for the sun to rise and the rain to pour and somehow they're still beautiful. I guess I'm not a flower that blooms all year round. Maybe for a week, a season if I'm lucky.

Thank you for the rain, it calms my mind. Thank you for all my friends, who love me, but don't know how to help me.

I watch the soft puffs of my incense machine spill out a lavender scent that sticks to the walls of my room and all my sweatshirts. I can hear my brother's T.V. from his room down the hall.

Thank you for protecting me. Bless all my friends, they deserve it. I hope Trevor does well on his finals and that Maddi will get into the college she wants.

I go on and on.

Is this all I can do? I wish I could stand up. I wish I could just get up and do something.

Thank you...please help...

I don't pray for myself. I usually forget to. But I care more about my friends than myself. They deserve prayer more than me.

They all have futures. I haven't gotten up in two days. I've stared at my computer screen and gotten up to eat food. My cello sits under the cork board in my room. Yeah, I used to be top in my class. They called me gifted.

Ha. Haha.

Sometimes child-like passion fades. Sometimes life hits you so hard that you're not ripe and promising. You're bruised and tender, broken, hurt, feel a little too much, care a little less, and become a little bit more selfish.

FUCK.

I don't want to be this way.

I could sketch something. I would stare at the page forever.

I could pick up my cello. I'm sure my fingers don't play like they used to.

Sorry God, sometimes I get distracted when I pray. I pray against anything that would try and break me and my friends apart. I pray that you give them long life and favor.

I could dance. I just can't.

They told me I had potential.

Potential.

potentialpotentialpotential.

I hate that word.

How do they know what I'll be? They don't.

Sometimes adults make promises for you that you can't keep.

I can't pinpoint it, but it has something to do about movement and speech. The way they blink their eyes, how they smile. And I can't help but see when I look them in the eyes some kind of underlying motive.

They're out to get me.

They hate me.

They are the ones who think they are better than me.

I was born in this town and my ancestors lived here before there was ever a sign of pollution. Why should they let foreigners here now?

"Mrs?" I hear her ask in my language, but her accent is thick. I look up at her, raising my eyebrows.

"Yes?" I respond to her blankly.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here before."

"I know," I tell her.

She's holding out the cash and it hangs in the air. I take it reluctantly. I open the cashier.

Ding.

"I like your dress," she says roughly.

What do you want?

I nod curtly and take her money and ring up her produce. Seven dollars in change. I give her six. She doesn't bother counting.

"Have a good day," she says and leaves with her head down.

I didn't respond.

It is amazing how beautiful everything is when one is depressed.

Let me rephrase.

It is amazing how beautiful everything is when one looks past their own problems.

Let me say

It is amazing how beautiful everything is when one looks past their problems and examines the simplistic beauty.

Let me clarify

Life is amazing when one observes every beauty as they look past their own problems and examines simplistic treasures

Let me describe

Life is breathtaking when one observes every leaf beginning to change color, every bird swaying with the breeze, the smiles of mothers and protection of fathers; the simple observation of something despite our problems when we are smothered by them, creating the deep examination of simple treasures.

Let me personalize

Your life is breathtaking when you observe every leaf changing color, every bird singing you a song, the smile of your mother and the protection of your father; your simplistic observation of something bigger than your problems when you are drowning in them as you examine the treasures of the world.

Let me zoom out

Everyone's life is breathtaking and important, thought we whither as fast as leaves in the fall and falter as quickly as the bird's song. Though the smile of our mother will turn to a frown and the protection of our father's fail us. Most of us make our problems our world and not the world our problem.

Let me bring us together

Our lives are breathtaking and important. We should observe the leaves on the trees though we will wither and fade just as they do in the fall. We should be as free as the birds song though we falter with it. We should have the smile of a mother when she beholds her child. We should protect others like a good father who loves his family. We should observe the simple things even when we are drowning. Because there is treasure to be found at the bottom of the ocean, but it is only useful if we swim back to the surface.

Let me command you.

You must know that your life is breataking and important. You have to observe the leaves on the trees that change color and brighten the cold winter sky. You need to sing as pleasantly as a bird in the air, content in his ways. You must smile at the sight of innocence and protect those whose innocence is threatened. You need to observe these things even when you are sinking. This life will give you hardships, but it will give you treasures. And you...you must know that you are one of them.

Find me one to love

If they say my name

and reach for my hand

let them do their best

to lay their eyes on

seas and ships which rip

through the black and blue

and come to bring my

heart in to the storms

and to cross the waves

with no fear of weight

that will hold me down

I see with my eyes glory shattered and yet to be redeemed

I believe we were once prisms to shine the light of God's glory

But one day we didn't want to be prisms any longer

So our forms shifted

and cracked

and broke

We were hidden in the darkness, filtering night into an inky-blackness

And when the light came we were unsure how to react

Until our pieces were retrieved from the corners of the Prison of the World

We were hammered, hardened, cooled, and dyed.

Our bodies ached out of weakness

But in our brokenness, we could not see how beautiful we had become

For once we were prisms shattered, and glass lost

But now we are stain-glassed windows held high above the searching masses

And what color

What inspiration

What comfort we give

When the light shines through these broken pieces.

There was not an illusion more bewildering to my waking eyes than Hitler, who sat at the edge of my bed, tapping his fingers on his knee. My first thought of his appearance made me believe I was experiencing an intruder in my home and the second believed myself to have tapped into a deep section of insanity. Of course, I could not distinguish between these and settled on the truth of both thoughts, the conclusion being: 1) Hitler has intruded my home and 2) it is completely ludicrous of me that I have the urge to speak with him.

He lifted his nervous fingers to scratch the small mustache in the middle of his nose which resembled the bristles of a toothbrush. He wore a formal suit and a hat that sat like a stone upon his head. When he noticed my rising, he quickly hid his hands from view and bowed his head, only allowing me to see his profile.

"I wish I had never come here," his voice was harsh, but filled with regret. I gulped, pushing myself up against the wall and pulling my covers close.

"Hitler," I said, processing the moment in my brain. When he moved he shimmered like a solemn, melancholy apparition.

"I must talk to someone," he told me, looking at the ground. "I must tell them what I've done." I furrowed my eyebrows, my lip curling in disgust.

"We know what you have done," I spat. "Your evil deeds are forced down our throats through school, through books, through movies. You are the world's most notorious villain. Some even question if you are a man at all."

Hilter laughed. I could see from his profile that his teeth were white. He smiled out of pride. However, his smiling expression was lost a second later.

"I find that statement amusing," he told me, nodding his head. Anger boiled inside my pores.

"I find your actions revolting," I countered. Hitler nodded.

"They were hardly my actions, boy," he smiled. "I commanded them. My obedient soldiers only listened."

"I see that the dead may lay buried, but yet they still lie," I told him. "You are not telling me the truth. You lied to the citizens you called your people. You murdered innocents, tortured them."

"I do not lie," Hitler told him. "I am only following my own moral standard. Is that too hard to accept?" I blinked, contemplating his statement.

"Your so-called standard was built off of evil. It was built off control and greed," I said to him. "You tried to make yourself a God."

"I was a God," and he looked down at his hands once more. I wasn't sure if I could handle looking at his face which mirrored sorrow and dismay. I balled my fist tight.

"As if God would murder the rest of the world, just for the sake of building a new nation," I growled at him. "As if God would commit genocide." Hitler laughed.

"This God you speak of. The one you put your trust in? He punished the Jews just as I did, did he not?" Hitler laughed. "This God you speak of. Your loving God. Why does he let bad things happen? Why did he let me exist? Why did he let your mother get cancer?"

I froze. I felt my spirit waver and then plunge downward like it was being sucked into a whirlpool of darkness.

"There is something you must know about my God," I told him, feeling my throat burn. "You see him as a one-dimensional figure. A loving God which cradles the sick in his arms and accepts the hurting soul. And yes, that is only a single side to him. But he is also just and he is holy and he is merciful. He has the power to judge because he is omniscient, omnipotent, and ubiquitous. You are nothing more than a finite creature, a villain, who grasps for power and control over your life and others because you are afraid of the dissatisfaction life brings you. And tell me, Hitler, were you satisfied?"

The sick smile he had been holding was wiped from his face.

"In fact, I don't think you were ever a man in the first place," I added, my mouth tasting bitter. "You were nothing but a monster."

"That, my dear, is where you are wrong," he told me. "Only man seeks to disrupt another's freedom and happiness for the sake of their own. While a lion may hunt a deer for meat, once he has obtained it he is satisfied. Only man will hunt and devour, realizing he can never be satisfied by his work alone."

That same look of regret flashed across his face.

"Why do you look that way?" I finally asked him. "What do you wish you had done differently?"

"My only regret is that my task was never finished," Hitler told me. "I was a threat to your God and out of fear he killed me." He finally turned to me, holding out his hands which were stained with blood. And in them, I could see the future that would have come to pass. I could see the absence of my birth. I could see children burning in the chimneys. I could see happy villages of blonde-haired and blue-eyed children. I saw the trees stretching up to the skies and music that played beautifully through the streets. And yet, I could still see Hitler's death.

"As for you," I told him, narrowing my eyes. "I am glad my God never gave you mercy."

And with my final statement, he closed his hands, almost as if he were praying, and disappeared from my eyes.