My feet are weary and I am worn

Been told who I am since the day I was born

Those voices grow quiet as I move on

My shadow’s behind me as I walk toward dawn

Though it seems I’m walking in circles and I haven’t reached where I long to be

I won’t let my heart grow weary I’ll follow its song till I know who I am

Sat there in a room with you. Your secrets long ago were brought to light. I hold my secrets though- deep inside- and yours resinate with mine. I wonder if the only difference between us is that I didn't carry around a .22 that ended up putting five bullets in someone's torso. Sure I'm not as extreme. Don't they say humans are humans more or less though? You never intended to kill a man but you did and you've got blood on your hands. I've never killed a man but my anger corrodes from the inside and spills out. Just makes me wonder what I would of done if when I was angry I'd had a gun. But there's where the difference is- I know better than to put a gun in my hands. Maybe you and I are made from the same stuff. But what we choose is what makes us different enough. The power to choose is the power to write a new story- not the one people keep telling us. The power to choose is the only thing that can not be taken away from us. Choices make us or they break us. There’s no way around it. We are the sum total of our choices.

There was a time I was afraid.

Trembling fists, I stood at the edge of a cliff swallowed by a vast gaping hole in front of me.

Yet greater still was the gaping hole that screamed inside of me.

But now, now my hands rest gently by my side.

They let go and in the giving I was revived.

I was as a tree surrendering leaves to stay alive.

Oh surrender, sweet surrender.

Were you not a friend of mine I would never have survived.

I’ve seen things I never should have.

The death of hope has been at my door.

In a broken bleeding place

I held the shame that marked my face with clenched fists shaking at the skies.

But surrender, sweet surrender

I let go and I dove into that vast gaping hole.

And when I dove I flew.

And when I flew I knew I had made it.

Words on a page. Unspoken, yet true. Still, what do they have the power to do? We spend our time paper to pen hoping for change but in the end it always. feels. the same. What if we change it, rearrange it, would that be enough? Or are we chained to habit with a self made handcuff? In Newton’s first law could words be the force? Could they enact on a thing and change its course? I want to believe that the things we say matter, but these days it seems most words fall on deaf ears. They are spoken but no one hears. Yet I am not one to sway my beliefs based on my preconceived notions about the outcome. That is something I refuse to do. So I look at myself in the mirror, I speak words and I do hear. I think them through, make them sacred, set them apart. Believing in the power of my own words is a start.

Pounding heart.

Racing thoughts.

Slipping from a cliff’s edge.

I succumb to gravity.

Falling fast.

Crumbling world.

I never learned to fly.

Such an unforgiving fate.

Gasp for air.

Can’t fill lungs.

Scream out a cry for help.

Said words unheard, impotent.

Pounding.

Falling.

Screaming.

Place it in you palm.

Put it in your mouth.

Drink water.

Swallow it down.

Stillness.

Ground.

Meg

Do you know why the trees lose their leaves, why they change to brilliant color only to drift silently to the ground waiting to be frozen in a frost? I ponder the thought as I walk. I am a leaf silently waiting for the inevitable. I hear the sound of crunching beneath my feet. Someday, I will crunch like a leaf under the weight of passing time. Time, seasons, change. It’s all so unavoidable. I hold on like a leaf waiting for the next wind to snatch me away from the branch that gives me life.

November 18, 2018

The lives we live are fleeting.

Clocks keep ticking.

We try to manage, spend, and make time.

We fear we’ll waste it.

A futile attempt to control what is no more than a construct.

We aren’t moving through time. Time moves through us.

I close my notebook. The ink has smudged as I moved my hand left to right across the page. My writing, like roots, keeps me grounded. I take the last drink of my now lukewarm coffee. Why do I even bother with the last drink? I know by now its cooled and will leave a bad aftertaste. Still for some reason, after I finish my writing and before I leave the coffee shop, I take that last disappointing drink of coffee.

I walk down the street toward campus. It’s a half hour walk but I prefer it to driving. I glance down at my phone, 9:02. Awesome, I’m going to be late to my first class. 120 seconds of class time I am paying for.

Ben

“Ben! Get out of bed bro. It’s 9:15, your class starts at 9:30.” I roll out of bed onto the floor. I glance under my bed and find a crumpled up dollar bill.

“Trevor, is this your dollar? It was under my bed.”

“Why would my dollar be under your bed Ben?”

I shrug. I guess I’ll grab a soda on my way to class. I need the extra caffeine anyway. Rehearsal for the musical went crazy late last night. We had to redo blocking for an entire number because the director felt “inspired in another direction”. I feel inspired too, inspired to get out of rehearsal at a reasonable hour. There are only two weeks until the play though. This is what the next two weeks of my life will look like. Late nights, busy weekends, sodas in the morning. I put the dollar bill in my pocket.

I get to the vending machine just outside my dorm. I pull the still crumbled bill out of my pocket, run it against the side of the machine to flatten it and put it into the bill slot. The machine sucks it up, I push the button and get my soda. I glance down at my phone. 9:30, I’m going to be a couple of minutes late. At least I have my soda. I twist off the cap and take a drink.

Clock

The time is 9:30. I hang on a wall in a hall dominated by English majors. My face sees many things. Most of the students have arrived to their 9:30 English class save two. Meg rounds the corner. Meg, interesting, she’s not usually late. She drops her notebook and bends over to pick it up. As soon as she bends over someone smashes into her. Who is this? Ah yes, Ben, running late, as usual. He bolts around this corner before every 9:30 class. First time I’ve seen a collision though. And a bad one at that. Looks like Ben was carrying a soda. Said soda is now all over Ben and Meg. A perfect sticky mess. Ben tries to apologize but Meg just walks away.

Meg

I open the door to my classroom at 9:35. It’s bad enough that I was going to be 2 minutes late. I am now 5 minutes late thanks to a collision in the hall. A guy came running around the corner and crashed into me. He covered me in soda. I take a seat. What an excellent morning this is turning out to be. I listen as the professor begins her lecture. At least I haven’t missed anything.

It’s the first class so we go over the syllabus. I always find it tiring to read through a syllabus in class. I’m an adult, I can read it myself. Instead, I sit through class and listen as my peers ask questions that are only making our professor take even longer to explain what she has already explained, right here, in the syllabus. Just read it. I skim over the assignments for the class. They are typical of a literature class. It looks like the basic format is reading a book a week and writing a review. Easy enough.

“Okay class”, Prof Berkey says, “We are going to take a minute to introduce ourselves. Why don’t you say your name, your major, and why you chose it.”

I panic. I hate these moments of forced sharing. One by one my classmates stand up to share. It’s my turn. I stand.

“I’m Meg. I am an English major. I chose to be an English major because I enjoy writing. It helped me pass the time as a kid. Now it has become a passion.”

I sit down. My words echo in my head. It helped me pass the time. Time has always felt desperately slow to me.

Ben

I made it to class five minutes late. I had this awkward moment in the hall. I was running around the corner and ran into this girl who was picking something up off the ground. She just introduced herself to the class her name is Meg, an english major. It is my turn to introduce myself. I stand.

“I’m Ben. I’m an art major. I chose to become an art major because my dad loved art and taught me to love it too.”

I take my seat. A few more people share. I glance up at the clock. 10:55. Only five minutes to go. This class has flown by.

After class I stop by the musical director’s office.

“Hey Mike, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Hello Ben, why don’t you sit down.”

I take a seat. I am not sure what I am even doing in his office. I just know I need to share my thoughts about the musical. I stare down at my hands.

“What’s going on Ben?”

“Well,” I search my mind for the right words, “it’s just that I am having a hard time remembering my lines and the blocking for the scene we went over last night. I’m not sure I can do this. Maybe you should have Jeffery take my role. He knows all my lines and is ready to go on if I can’t. Jeffery has acted in plenty of plays. He is better than me anyway. I just can’t believe there are only two weeks left until the show and I don’t know. I just…I’m sorry but you picked the wrong guy.”

“No, I didn’t. I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight Ben.”

The only response I could come up with were these three words, “Um, yeah, okay.”

I got up and left the room. That conversation didn’t turn out how I thought it would. I thought about his words, “No, I didn’t”. How could he be sure? My insecurities press down on me. I take a deep breath. As I walk down the hall I pull out my headphones. Music always calms me. I find myself rushing down the hall for some reason. I try to slow my pace.

Meg

As I am walking out of class my phone rings. I look down at the caller ID. It’s my sister, Liz. I pick up the phone.

“Hey, what’s up. Just got out of class.”

“Meg”

Her voice sounds shaky on the other end of the line. She never sounds this way.

“Are you alright Liz?”

“Meg. I’m pregnant.”

Her words came in through my ear and bounced around in my head. I couldn’t process the information. Liz, my kid sister, pregnant at 16.

“Who is the dad Liz?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know,” she says. Her tone was a strange mix of angry and scared.

“I don’t understand,” I respond.

“Meg, I was at this party a couple of months ago and we were drinking. I know I shouldn’t have but I did. And I drank too much and well, I don’t remember what happened. I must have had sex that night because I don’t remember having sex at any other time. That’s the only time I don’t remember and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should ask people who were at the party. I can’t tell people I am pregnant. Aunt Stacy can’t know. If mom and dad were around they would be so disappointed. I just,” her voice is breaking up.

“I’m scared.”

She went silent on the other end of the line. I don’t know what to say. I can’t process the information. I want to help but I literally can’t even find words. We sit in silence for about thirty seconds. All of the emotions I can think of are welling up inside me. All I can think to do is offer to be with her. “I’ll come home this weekend and we can figure this out. Ok Liz? This will be okay.”

I hear her crying now.

“Ok. I’ll see you in a few days Meg.”

We hang up the phone. I walk back toward my apartment. As I retrace my path from this morning in reverse I look up at the trees. The sun shines through them. I look at a brilliant yellow tree. A breeze blows and I zip up my jacket. I watch a single leaf fall from a branch and drift slowly down. For the first time in its life it touches the ground. A car drives by and I’m startled by its speed. The conversation with Liz plays over again in my head. All of the emotions I experienced during the conversation mix together and settle in my chest. They blend together and create a dull ache inside of me. “She’s pregnant,” I said it outloud to no one in particular. Though the words left my lips there are no ears to hear them. It’s like they have never been spoken.