He was ill,

Terribly ill.

To see him each day,

each day feeling differently,

sometimes better,

sometimes worse.

Painful

to see it change over time.

Tail wagging this moment,

eyes closing,

sleepily,

peacefully,

the next.

Breathing,

but struggling.

Living,

But deteriorating.

Smiling at us,

being brave and happy for us,

but sick deep down.

Putting up a front as he did,

when being a creature,

he couldn't even speak,

is truly remarkable,

and truly one of the bravest actions

I've ever witnessed.

First dog,

one of my closest friends,

now gone.

But still in thought,

still happy in older pictures and printed photographs,

still looking happy,

still looking healthy,

before the news was delivered,

and we knew that this day would come.

That he would have to go,

with a painful decision made before.

At least is was peaceful,

in a white,

empty,

medical room,

Veterinary office.

At least he can live life fully,

at its best,

where-ever he is now.

Maybe watching,

wagging his tail with amusement,

maybe feeling proud,

that we managed through the sandess,

and the pain,

together.

It still hurts,

but it gets easier with time,

slowly with time.

I owe to him,

on how I've changed.

Thank you,

to my first dog,

a close friend,

and a truly brave and sweet soul.

A soul who deserved so much more,

but didn't have the time.

We love you;

We miss you.

21.6.2020

in an age of data

a billion statisticians

flaunt google searches

and scream their knowledge

with self-righteous fervor

and what is known as right is won

by arguments based off data

collected, counted insignificance.

so outward is the focus of the mind

that nothing matters but the

iconoclastic goals built up by masses

designed to destroy themselves

and scare the soul

into submission.

and it might not even matter what the goal is

each of us is motivated differently

to discover some Truth

and bring forth some purpose

and that motivation makes us hate ourselves

and it makes us hate the world the way it "was"

and the newfound data-driven hatred of mankind

will strike us dead before our hearts stop beating.

So the other day I dropped a first aid kit at work, and while I was cleaning up my mess, I had a thought: "This will probably be the most band-aids I have ever held in my hand at one time in my life." For some reason, that thought was more prominent in my mind than the fact that I'd just accidentally emptied the contents of the store's ENTIRE first aid kit all over the floor of the breakroom, I'm talking hundreds of band-aids in various sizes scattered across the room, some of which laid flush against the floor so I had to use my fingernails to pick them up which made my hands dirty, it was an interesting time in my human existence. There was an initial anger, I was way too busy to be on my hands and knees picking band-aids off this greasy, dust covered linoleum tile but soon I was off in la-la land, mindlessly hunting for bandaids, forming messy piles next to me and not thinking about it.

What if there was some kind of cosmic ledger that kept track of a person's life statistics, a huge book that listed the exact amount of times a person did a thing. That moment would probably be the highest listing of the number of bandaids held, at least up until this point. It makes me wonder how often I break my own records. I wonder what the saltiest french fry I've ever eaten was, or the most tired I've ever been, or what the nicest thing I've ever done was. I wonder how many times I've thought about my mom, and if that number is on par with the times I've thought about Dad, or my brother, or my dogs. I wonder who is the person I think about the most, and the least. I wonder how many miles I've driven, how many times I've introduced myself to someone, how many hours of my life I've spent watching Seinfeld.

When was the first time I realized who I really was?

Or the last time I questioned it?

How many people do I really know?

I feel like people could learn a lot about themselves if they had their lives available to themselves this way. Having a record of everything means that we can find patterns and possibly even predict the future. If each individual thought and behavior a person does holds significance (which is something that I believed very recently) then this would be the most valuable tool known to humanistic psychology.

But I'm starting to think that that kind of idea is super counterproductive to what life (in my current opinion) is. Why are we so obsessed with the consistency of our behavior? We do not allow for our opinions and values to change, even minute to minute.

I dunno, maybe none of this makes sense, I'm just kind of writing with no direction here.

I guess what i'm saying is that I don't think that there are very many things that matter that aren't happening right NOW. Down to the second. like now

and now

and now

you get the point. Why spend time agonizing over a decision when you could just make it, come what may. Why worry about things you might've done, decisions you could have made, things that might happen to you when RIGHT NOW you're alive, breathing, and conscious.

I dunno, this feels and sounds naive, and very young and I'm having a hard time putting my recent experience into words, but it is lovely. I feel free in a way that I couldn't have considered before, I feel... awake.

Of course all that could change tomorrow; but right now, I feel like a human being who is experiencing a memory of holding a lot of band-aids and thought that it meant something significant to him.

I hope each person that reads this can take time to just breathe and experience their moment alive. No need to listen to thoughts, no need to be burdened by personality, just alive and hopefully thriving.

I have love for you all, and I appreciate the outlet and community that exists here on Prose.

Torn between you and now.

The time has come to make a choice.

Unless a choice doesn't have to be made.

Your presence is a black hole

which consumes my attention

and i'm afraid it's harming me

unintentionally.

It makes one wonder

where fears come from.

Are they there to tell me something,

or is it left-over programming?

The wrongness of this,

the mind sees

but the beauty, that bliss,

is the body's.

I am neither of those things.

And in between them both

is you

I walked aimlessly down the hall. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew why.

The words “Please send to room 94” were written on a yellow piece of paper my History teacher had handed me. I knew right away what it was about.

I walked as slowly as I could. When I passed a security guard or teacher, I pretended I knew where I was headed. I held the yellow pass so they could see and kept on my way.

But my mind was elsewhere. I stared out windows and into classrooms as I passed. I wanted more than anything to tear the pass in half and throw it on the ground. All I wanted to do was run.

Ever since school had begun several weeks ago, I had dreaded this moment. I knew that some day my friend would spill our little secret, and I would be the one who would suffer. Or, maybe, so she could join in the fun … I should make her suffer.

She had told, hadn’t she? I asked myself over and over as I searched for my destination. I trusted her with my secret and she had told. But I’d known that some day she would. Maybe that was why I had told her.

Deep down, I was tired of struggling. I was tired of the constant tears and sadness that seemed to take over my life. But I didn’t want to admit it, and I never would – not in a ­million years would I admit that I didn’t want to be like this anymore.

Finally I turned a corner and saw a number on a door that matched the room number on the pass. I opened it with a shaking hand and stepped inside, terrified, overwhelmed by loneliness, and burning with hatred for the one who had tattled on me.

I felt like a small child, lost and unsure where to go. I probably looked like one too. No hint of confidence was on my face and I knew it. And I didn’t care if my fear and anger showed.

The room was dark – just a small lamp in the corner and the light from the social worker’s computer screen. I shut the door, as she instructed, and sat in a chair. All I wanted to do was walk away … even more so when she began to speak. It started out as a “getting to know each other” talk. She asked me simple questions and I answered. But still my mind and heart were not in that room. All I could think about was why I was here. What had I gotten myself into?

Then the conversation took a sharp turn, so sharp that I felt as if she was stabbing me in the heart. Her questions brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to set them free. I had learned how to hide my emotions, and I used my “coping skills” to keep from breaking down.

I answered with nods and shakes of my head. When I did speak, my words were only whispers. I could feel my voice begin to shake but still – still, I did not show her my feelings.

My heart beat rapidly as her words began to sink in. It wasn’t that they were changing me, but they were becoming more real to me. They were somehow cutting through my denial and causing me to open up to myself. Somehow, I felt a flicker of hope spark in me.

I walked out of her office 20 long minutes later, still physically and emotionally tired from battling a mental disorder. But I also walked out of that office knowing something about my friend – that she had cared enough to tell.

And that was all I needed to know.

I hurt people.

There's just no getting around it.

I tried, as much as I was able,

but it's no use; I admit.

I hurt people.

What do I do with all this guilt?

Maybe I should be more gentle.

But isn't it too late? The blood's already spilt.

I hurt people.

Isn't it quite dull,

This fault universal?

This fragile heart should be more careful.

It was over. and yet it had just begun. I had been so scared. I miss them. Time moved too fast. Ten years went by in a moment. We made it. We flipped the page and started a new chapter. I feel different. Older, more mature. I was only twelve, but I felt like I aged a year in a minute. The minute that changed everything.

Promises were made. If we went through with it, a new house. A dog. Our grandparents. I learned so much. I learned that change is a good thing, even if you don't see it at first. Tears can free you. There are more good people out there, waiting to meet you and be your friend. You can change a life. Make a difference. We are all learning, all the time. I learn every day. When you hear something life-changing, it changes you. It has to sink in for a while. When it does, you have two choices. Break down, or face it. I did a little of both. But I am better now. We are all better.

We didn’t always have a family of five. It was once only two. When my older sister came it was three, and when I came it finally became four. That was it. We were only a family of four. I liked our family of four. I always thought that four was a nice number for a family.

But then came a fifth, and that fifth wasn’t even ours to keep. She belonged to somebody else. I remember our car skidding to a stop in front of a dimly lit building I’d never seen before. The only light came from one single door in the corner, almost beckoning us to come in. She was only four months old at the time and felt like a fragile dandelion that could be blown by the slightest breeze.

Mom said she was only supposed to stay the night. That night.

I remember sitting on our big, leather couch watching this giggling mess of a baby trying to roll over on the floor. I wondered what made her giggle so much. I wondered what made me smile when seeing this baby filled with uncontainable laughter.

Mom said she was only supposed to stay this week. That week.

I remember walking through the bread aisle in Publix and being met with the uncomfortable feeling of someone watching my back. Every person in every aisle reacted the same. Their one glance turning into that one stare. She was brown and we were white. Every one of their drawn-out looks was a reminder, that she wasn’t ours to keep. We continued on past the bakery and its sugar-filled smells. Each pastry was a work of art. Yet among the many intricate designs was a simple black and white cookie. Although that simple pastry was made of frosting and dough, not glass, I felt as if my family’s reflection was on display for everyone to see.

Mom said she was only supposed to stay this month. That month.

I remember signing up for the childcare at my church, just so she wouldn’t cry every time we dropped her off. I wondered what made her cry so hard. Did she think we wouldn’t ever come back? Did she think we were leaving her?

Mom said she didn’t know how long she was staying. I hoped forever.

I liked the number five. I thought that five was a nice number for a family. I wanted a family of five.

Mom said we were just going on a trip to Colorado. Just a trip.

I remember asking “Why can’t she come with us?” and Mom replying “She’s too little to go on a plane.” I didn’t argue. Mom was always right. Mom was always right unless she wanted to be wrong.

Wrong. I remember sitting in the fake leather seats in the congested airplane. The air was filled with the sound of high-pitched crying. Looking down the aisle, I could see a small infant, no older than four months, wailing in her mother’s arms. I glanced back at Mom, studying her face. Before I could ask that simple question once more, she answered.

“She went back.” Mom said. The word back seemed hard to say in her mouth. A word that I might have written a thousand times over without it truly having meaning. She went back. She belonged to somebody else. Not us.

I remember that night in Colorado. My white, hotel sheets had been darkened from my tears. The cold, wet feeling left on my pillow that wouldn’t ever dry. We were only a family of four. I hated the number four.

For an entire year, we went without hearing from or seeing her. Our four-person family didn’t feel quite right, like a car with four wheels, yet it was still missing its steering wheel. Our even-numbered family somehow felt odd.

For one of the first times in my life, I kneeled down onto the carpeted flooring in my bedroom and prayed. For the first time, I didn’t fight the tears in my eyes. I let them roll down my cheeks and onto the floor. For the first time, I let out everything.

Why couldn’t she stay? Why couldn’t she look like us? Why couldn’t she… Why couldn’t she…

My hands gripped harder onto my scuffed knees. Each tear tore through me.

And I prayed one simple sentence. Just let me see her again.

As usual, we went to church on Saturday. As usual, we would walk by the playground. It all felt like an as usual Saturday. But then came the fifth, running into the playground. There she was. She was there. But as I came and sat with her on the playground, I saw no recognition in her face.

“Do you know my name?” I smiled trying to say without letting the tears fall. The little brown girl with afro hair shook her head, and then went back to the slides on the playground. Up and down. Up and down. I couldn’t help but watch, my eyes following her movements. Up and down. Up and down.

When I met her once again in the childcare room at church, I couldn’t help but feel overjoyed. Now there was a slight bit of recognition in her face. For me, that was enough. I was surrounded by children, yet I truly cared for only one.

Week after week, I held her in my arms every Saturday. Only on Saturday. I loved Saturday.

Mom said she’s coming back.

Back. The word’s meaning had changed so drastically. She was coming back home. This time I promised to hold onto her tight and never let go.

A year went by - I had gotten used to her monthly visits with the mother, and the difference in the way she acted when she came back home.

Another year - I had gotten used to her father’s letters from jail, which she couldn’t yet read, and his drawings of Mickey Mouse.

Another year - I had gotten used to her funny little questions, “Mommy, when I get older will I be white?”

And on May 26th of that same year, Mom said she would stay. And I knew she meant forever.

May tiptoed by like a frightened hare, caught in the headlights of the spring. We wielded nervous laughter and shy smiles like they were a language. Tentative, hopeful.

Wild. That’s how June felt. The rush of picnics, headaches from the ACT, sudden honks from cars that shook us awake. Longing crept into my heart, carved itself a spot below my sternum. I saw sunflowers for the first time.

July, more muted than its cousin, surprised us in its glory, all white-tipped mountains, sparking cider, and we watched it from afar, as if in disbelief. Its Portuguese cliffs made me furious. Its shoe stores made you cry.

August brought heat, heavy torpor that settled on us like a skin, making us lazy, making us slow. Too distracted, busy pleasantly lying to ourselves, we didn’t spot the frustration rolling in. To hell with college, we agreed. To hell with friends, we said, and drifted quietly to sleep.

Where August slept, September screamed. A reckoning. The frustration cracked me open, and I spilled all my hot, hot anger onto you.

October stood for weariness. We tried to prop each other up, each offended by the other’s shaking, the lack of sleep etched into the other’s sighs. Our eyes lined with resignation, I fought with my sister, you wrestled with your mom. My world felt dull and faded, bland, without the usual October colors that I expected. Where were my fiery reds, the yellows I could melt in, oranges so crisp they smelled like rain? I shrivelled.

November was my jeans. They were Brandy Melville jeans, I think, mom cut, washed denim, pretty sleek. When they arrived, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Gorgeous! Gorgeous, gorgeous, pulled them on, zipped them up, nearly choked. Were they designed for a popsicle stick? I don’t know why I had hoped, and yet I wore them. Paired with chlorine, wet streaks, a plastic roof, they looked good on Thanksgiving day.

I cried and cried and cried. To hell with college? To hell with midterms, I told you. You reached for me and swallowed up my tears. I dove into your arms, nauseous as I hit water. The trees outside covered themselves in shiny frost with me, in true December solidarity.

January felt like a wave of bile rising from my stomach. I couldn’t stand to think of it, and though you knew, you didn’t feel it. The exhaustion started peeling back, culring off my eyes like layers of scratchy wallpaper. If December was a month to mourn, January planned, timidly, ahead.

Fuck February’s ibuprofen. I have never been so worried in my life. When I finally cracked, you handed me the glue to put myself together. Thank you.

March, I relearned how to tilt my chin up. Pondered the quiet gravitas of those who love, and salvaged the strangeness of those who do not give a shit. Every time I looked at you, I smiled, because your hair was overgrown and you looked stupid, spreading ACME monopoly tickets across your carpet, charting the course you wanted them to take. You still made me killer salads before class, and I still ate them to the point of sickness. We celebrated break.

I made you lemon bars in April. You loved their sweetness, their swirl of yellow. I started looking at apartments, first in Lisbon, then Prague, Madrid, Barcelona. We sent two emails together, and got chased off a park lawn by Montclair police.

Another May. I brought you churros, you threw me lemons, I delivered rollerblades and pulled you by the elbow as you screamed that you were going to die. I’ve worn your blanket as my armor (and your t-shirts, your scratchy sweatpants, the Champion sweatshirt that you got for Christmas). We still nervously laugh from six feet apart when your mom comes to check on us, Friday nights spent on your porch. I still smile when you ask to go biking. I feel more filled up, sunnier, than I did this time last year. You still look just as dumb, though. And I love you for it.