We’re sometimes so self-depricating. Hesitant to believe that what we have to say is of any value. But what we write is a representation of the beauty and ugliness of the universe. Artists translate the philosophical, the magical, the intangible into reality. Writers are artists and words are our medium. We are called to serve with truth as our sword. We are miraculous and powerful.

The simple peace between my teeth

A smile still to find

The one I share to hide despair

A mask made up of lies

I hide it there, my sweet despair

A tender, rotten flower

With tears unshed, it’s petals bend

Wilting every hour

The gentle tease of a post-rain breeze

It’s purity divine

The one I share to cleanse despair

and poison from my mind

I hide it there, my sweet depair

A razor-wire wreath

As words rise up, but aren’t enough

They’re smothered just beneath

The simple peace between my teeth

A smile still to find

The one I share to hide despair

A mask made up of lies

I hide it there, my sweet despair

A tender, rotten flower

With tears unshed, it’s petals bend

Wilting every hour

The gentle tease of a post-rain breeze

It’s purity divine

The one I share to cleanse despair

and poison from my mind

I hide it there, my sweet depair

A razor-wire wreath

As words rise up, but aren't enough

They're smothered just beneath

Tight leather jacket with more zippers than pockets. White camisole. Skin tight jeans. She chews her gum loudly as she bores into me with disturbing, violet eyes set in olive skin, her face framed by dark, tumbling locks.

She looks nothing like I expected.

.....

Doing laundry last week, I found a crumpled coupon in my jeans pocket. MISS MAE, UNDERGROUND MAGIC SPECIALIST 80% OFF ONE 24HR CHARM. In plain font on a white piece of paper with no color, image or decoration. The only other lettering was an address. How in the hell had this gotten in my pocket? I’d worn the jeans three days prior and couldn’t recall going anywhere or doing anything that would have resulted in any coupon in my pocket. Let alone one so mysteriously austere.

Once it was in my hands, I was stricken by an acute fear at the thought of putting it back down. I folded it, put it in my pocket and continued with the laundry. I kept it near me for four days before my curiosity, and a strange, pressing anxiety compelled me to seek out this Miss Mae.

The address was for a bar in old downtown. Most businesses there are either closed or closing. The building I found was no different. It was so old that the bricks were crumbling, leaving small piles of reddish dust, gathered against the walls. The early morning sun reflected dully off dirty windows, making it impossible to see inside. It was difficult to discern if it was open or closed. I walked in anyways. And there she sat. Arms and legs crossed; eyes focused on me. The bar behind her was not spectacular, it didn’t even appear to have a full selection of liquor, or at least the full selection was not on display as in most bars. I again wondered if the place was open. There were only two tables besides the four stools at the bar.

“It’s about time you showed up. You’re a stubborn one.” Her voice sounded like that of a smoker, but her flawless skin said otherwise. She looked almost ethereal which was in direct contrast to her very mundane attire.

“Um, hi?” It was a great opening line.

.....

Now here we are, at one of those two lonely tables. A dark eyebrow perks and she breaks her unsettling gaze to glance down at the table, then sets those eyes back on me again. I look down. Three cards lay in front of me and I’m hard pressed to recall when she actually laid them there. The table was cleared when we sat.

“Twenty bucks with your coupon,” she holds her hand out.

Almost as if entranced, I hand her the twenty I don’t remember having and the coupon I don’t remember acquiring. She pockets both, then sets those eyes on me again.

“Choose.”

I look down again. The cards are as plain as the coupon. Black block lettering on a white background.

INVISIBILITY

FLIGHT

TELEPATHY

The first makes me shudder. I already know how it feels to be invisible. Everything about me is average. I float through life alone, drawing no attention to myself on account of being utterly ordinary. I hardly have anyone I could call a friend. I’ve felt unheard all my life, to be unseen as well…. it’s unthinkable.

Hard pass.

The second, flight, has some appeal, but my fear of heights makes me wary.

Telepathy is nearly as terrifying as invisibility. I can’t imagine what would be worse; to hear the negative things people think of me, or to realize that they didn’t think of me at all. Yet more evidence that I barely even exist.

“Do I have to choose?” Though I know her answer before she speaks, I simply have to

ask. Fear has me glancing at the door.

Violet eyes, “You must choose”. A darkness seeps into her voice, heightening the uneasy feeling in my gut.

I inhale, exhale, and pick up the flight card before I can think any more about it. A sinister grin blooms on the mystery woman’s face. Have I made a mistake? She flicks her wrist and the cards on the table as well as the one in my hand disappear.

“Twenty-four hours.” She reminds me. Then stands and promptly exits the strange little bar, leaving me alone and not a little unsure of what I should do next. Am I supposed to be able to fly now? It’s bizarre enough that I’m even considering the possibility that any of this is real, yet as I step outside, I’m overcome with the certainty that I can, in fact, fly. And up I go, as quickly as the thought takes form, I’m ten, then twenty feet in the air with complete control. It’s as effortless as breathing, which I have to remind myself to do, once I realize how high up I’m getting. Swallowing my fear, I set off.

I fly over the city, dodging skyscrapers with startled and confused occupants. I assume they must be shocked at the vision of me soaring past them, but I’m going too fast to see for sure. The air is thick and hot, the sun reflecting off a thousand windows like Egyptian mirrors. It’s true that people look like ants from high up. This revelation does not inspire me to stay in the pollution choked city. There is nothing for me here.

I fly to the suburbs, over perfect lawns and houses built too closely together. I hover for a moment, considering if this life is the heaven it promises. The lights of a cobalt SUV flash, then the engine suddenly starts. A woman in a pant suit walks out of the house belonging the driveway the SUV is parked in. Three small copies of her trail behind, each in the same school uniform with matching backpacks. A man in a robe with a five o’clock shadow steps out behind the kids. The woman turns to wave at him, but he rushes out to embrace her and kiss her on the forehead, much to the children’s disgust. How many times have I dreamed of such a life—kids, a spouse, people who would always be there, who would always love me, who needed me? I look down at it now and it all seems too simple, impossible, not real. There is nothing for me here.

I fly over the country. Miles and miles of hilly green roll out below me. Mountains loom on the horizon. I’ve gone up high enough were I can just barely make out the specs of people and larger specs of horses and cattle. I imagine farm life. Hard, long days I’ve heard. And surrounded by a paradise of nature. The smell of manure stings my nose. There is nothing for me here.

I fly over the mountains. They are cold and lonely. I don’t stay long because they echo my heart too loudly. I shiver from more than the chill. There is nothing for me here.

I fly over the forest—a place I know is teeming with life. Each little being has its own purpose, its own drive to live. Every little soul has a place in this vast expanse of towering pine trees. I ache for that sense of belonging, but still, there is nothing for me here.

I fly over the ocean. Its mystery is alluring, and stronger still is the growing urge to let myself fall in. Even the sun has given up on me. As it meets its own sparkling reflection, slowly sinking behind and endless sea, it surrenders to the night. Should I surrender too? I’ve lost track of time, but I know I’ve at least until dawn before the spell wears off. Yet I’ve no sense of urgency, no fear of falling. In fact, I realize the only fear I’ve felt since lifting off, is the fear that there is nothing for me anywhere. And at the speed of flight, I’ve confirmed my greatest nightmare. There is nothing for me here.

I fly up.

And up.

And up.

The air has thinned drastically, but somehow, I’m still getting enough oxygen.

I fly higher still.

Still I can breathe. A desperate sob escapes me. Why? I expected to black out at some point and fall quietly into the sea. No one would miss me. But I just keep breathing. Like all the years preceding, I breathe in and breathe out and I just keep going and I don’t know WHY. Why am I here?

I close my eyes and accelerate.

Suddenly, there is nothing. No air, no sound. I’m not breathing anymore, but I don’t need to. I’m in space and that damned woman gave me a flying spell that won’t let me die. The tears come bursting forth. Tiny spheres of ice that never have the chance to roll down my cheek. They’re floating in front of me, mocking me. I scream until I’m raw and not a single sound breaks through. Only more frozen orbs from my impossibly unaffected eyes. I’m being crushed by the yawning, fathomless abyss. There is nothing for me and I am for nothing. Yet here nothing is and still I don’t belong.

Why?

I turn towards a home that never felt like mine—and I’m immobilized by the sight of it.

A sphere of the most perfect blue, shrouded in rippling white clouds. Half a bright, smiling curve against the empty black, the other fading into it. Something in me shifts. The tears of despair turn to crystalized wonder. I’ve never felt smaller, or more humbled. In a lifeless void, here exists this oasis. This impossible thing. Existing is its own miracle.

“Time’s up.”

I swing around towards a voice I shouldn’t be able to hear. Nothing.

Turning back to the Earth, it appears to be growing—no not growing. I’m falling. I’ve forgotten about the time limit. I realize that I’m terrified. I suddenly feel that I’ve something to lose. At the speed I’m going I should most definitely be burning up in the atmosphere, yet again I am unharmed, diving feet first towards reality. My fear ebbs as the falling slows. I could swear I had been directly over the ocean, yet as my feet touch concrete, I have to laugh to myself at the impossibility of it all. There in front of me is the old bar. I continue laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks. The bar is boarded up. It’s clear there is no one there and there hasn’t been for months. How can I be surprised? I turn towards home, then stop. I look around. Nothing but old buildings and scattered, dying businesses. Few people actually roam the streets. But beyond that, impossibly tall buildings mark the horizon, near impossibly loving families and impossibly green hills. Farther still are the impossibly colossal mountains and an impossibly blue sea.

There is everything for me here.

It still feels like a joke. Yeah, I know that’s insensitive and I’m lucky to even have the capacity to see it that way. For so many people, it’s all too real. I’m just not one of them. I’m in a peripheral corner, a limbo where the structure I relied on is deteriorating, but I’m realizing I had never been great at conforming to it anyways. I’ve got this dream of rebirth. I’ve got this thought, a recurring vision of re-breaking bones so they can set right and heal again-- but better, more functional. I’ve got hope buried somewhere beneath this weighty anxiety. Most of the time change is painful, it’s chaos. But change is also inevitable and necessary. These moments-- only heartbeats in the grand scheme of things-- are the track changing. Some force, flipping the switch and veering us in a different direction. I feel simultaneously powerless and utterly responsible for this shift. As if I can manipulate the future. There is such a thing as a catalyst. I know I’m not the only one who thinks things were broken to begin with. Now suddenly we have a concept of necessity. Suddenly we have this idea, a belief that everyone deserves a chance to survive and at the very least that children deserve to fucking eat. The shock snapped our eyelids open (except those stubborn few). Fear is powerful. Fear is motivating. It can destroy us or empower us against a common threat. And yet, fear is the common threat.

This catalyst. It’s our hope, our opportunity. Hell, if we can give stimulus checks in the name of rescuing the economy, we can connect that logic to “normal” days. We can acknowledge that the working class always needed to have reliable income, livable wages to support a flourishing economy. We’ve got caps for raises, but none for fucking profit or bonuses for CEOs or for the 1%? How the fuck can you justify that? Things are fucked up now, but they aren’t really more fucked up. They’re just fucked differently. Fucked sideways, one could say. And I’m devolving into this rant because I’ve got all my adult years and some teenage ones worth of rage at the goddamn system built up and I’m seized by this absolute terror that when this is all over, we’ll just go right back to the way things used to be. How absolutely fucked would that be? It’s already telling that there are world leaders who want to fucking sue China for damages because they didn’t contain the virus or what the fuck ever. I mean could there ever be a more glaring, undeniable indication of how closely we are all connected than a fucking Goddamn global virus that impacts every-fucking-one? It’s infuriating. It’s demoralizing. Our world leaders are so busy pointing fingers they can’t see what’s written on the wall or whatever that fucking saying is. We have the potential to walk out of all of this with a new mindset, with a sentiment of peace and cooperation, with the knowledge that we are all interconnected, we are all Earthlings, we are all responsible for this Goddamn planet and therefore we are all responsible for each other. The corrosive greed, selfishness, nationalism, xenophobia bullshit is more toxic than this actual virus and the virus has the potential to be a fucking cure for all that nonsense. Or a least a treatment, an opportunity to recover. To change. Change is violent. It’s painful. And we can direct it. We can’t control it, we can’t really even predict it, but we can wield it, we can guide it, we can embrace it, because change is the only way that any good thing ever happens. Think about it. In order for anything to happen, it had to not have been happening before. So just by virtue of its existence it is in fact CHANGE. It wasn’t, then it was. See? Change. Get your shit together America. Get your shit together world.

You want to know how I envision us stepping out of things? I’ve got two screens up and only one I actually want to watch-- the other I feel like I don’t need to because I’ll inevitably live it. I want to watch the one where we step out of this without losing our sense of connectedness and responsibility for one another. I want to watch us seize control, demand our share, demand our children always be fed and educated. I want to see us at the end of the fucking rope. I want to see motivation, anger, determination. I want to see the ferocity of change. I want to see us demanding to end the use of fossil fuels, the practice of fracking, bushmeat trading, whaling, palm oil, plastic, everything toxic and damaging to this gift of a planet and the creatures on it. I want to see a world of people demanding to save that fucking planet. I’m tired. I’m tired of these goddamn corporate giants raping the economy and our beautiful Earth. I’m tired of communism raping culture and tradition. I’m tire of de-MOCKracy. This illusion of a voice, the manipulation of votes and voters. I’m tired of the pretense, the superficial values that camouflage heinous crimes and malicious manipulation of what are supposed to be a free people. I want the fear of these times to inform us on our fear of everything else in general. I see us rising up to meet our potential as humans. I’ve got this stupid, naïve goddamn dream, that we finally get our shit together. This fucking “watching the sunrise” refreshing new start fantasy that the oppressed will become empowered and we can find a way to both feed and save the world.

But there still is that other screen. Right there in front of me, it wants to make me watch. It grins it’s knowing grin and tells me of reality. That we’re on the verge of global powers both weakened and seeking to monopolize on the weakness of others. We’re lost, we’re afraid, and then we’re at war. Was this supposed to be a hopeful entry? Sorry, but I’m a realist. Well at least I think I am. I suppose a realist wouldn’t dream of that first screen, the one with peace and prosperity, acceptance. I suppose a realist wouldn’t dream of that world house that Dr. Martin Luther King wrote about not so many years ago. When he predicted that we have reached a time where we can either work together or perish, as we have now developed the means to destroy ourselves. And what will we have left behind? Our existence will have been but a flicker of light in an ocean of stars, and if we’re lucky enough then maybe we’d have had some alien observer who recorded that we existed so we might still be known, continue to be in some memory of life in this vast unknowable universe. More than likely we won’t be. I’m not religious, but I’m no existentialist either. I have to believe that in some way our collective experience will rejoin the energy of this universe, but what is lost can never be regained. We have so much potential. If we used it to create, rather than destroy, imagine what we could achieve. And I hope that we hit that switch, that we shift directions. I hope that we renew ourselves and our paths and our goals. May all the youth of the world rise up in unison and take hold of the future which belongs to them. If we follow these decrepit leaders, we all will perish, condemning ourselves to obscurity.

Breaking is an illusion.

We are often deceived by change. We think it is death. Here I sit, feeling more alone than I have ever felt. Wait. That isn’t true.

Here I sit.

I feel more alone than I have felt since he moved into my line of sight. I feel alone like before I knew what it felt like to be heard.

I think that’s what lonliness is. I think loneliness is having no voice at all. Loneliness is that realization, that feeling that sweeps you up and drowns you when you KNOW you have not been heard.

It’s that philosophical question that is now all but a joke... if a tree falls in the forest but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Loneliness is not knowing if your screams are even making a sound.

Gingerly, and with some hesitation, I stepped out from the comforting shelter of years’ familiarity. For a moment, I wavered. I was terrified. I peered out into an infinite space. It was only an idea with nothing solid to hold me. I glanced behind me at the safety and warmth of shelter, but I had already mounted my fears and I found the need for that security waning. In an infinite universe, it felt a waste to bind myself into a finite space. I snapped the reins, mastering my doubts, and bound into uncertainty.