Different can be the same

They say she can’t influence you because well you aren’t the same.
Different history, different color, different name,
Yet I see a reflection of the darkness of my heart.
The part I try hardest to conceal,
Shoved relentlessly, unequivocally inside
Hidden in my closet behind those ratty, torn shoes,
Dust-covered boxes and old journals filled with youthful musings.

They are pieces of me left abandoned
But somehow you can see my veiled attempts to masquerade
And you are intent on telling the world.
Though you do not even know me,
You speak of me in oddly overt, unspecific terms
I am like you, like everyone else; we are all one in the same
We have a same heart, a same soul, a same need for oxygenated air.

It is clear I have a story just like you
Yet if our pieces were put together not even half of them would mesh
Though some would fall naturally others I would force, berate
The harshness of their clashing tones
Would equate to forks and knives and plates all rubbing together
Underneath the guide of a four-year-old in an upscale restaurant.
Where all the heads would turn and take notice
And the news would probably report it
It’s dramatic. There is discord. This makes good news!


To err is human, and an error it would certainly be
To coerce all our pieces to subsist as cookie-cutter shapes,
Rather let’s leave seeds of dissension behind,
Not to go forever untouched, but considerately set aside for now
Until we can learn to reshape us in lieu of trying to shape each other
Instead let’s find the pieces that sing sweetly together
They are somewhat similar still wonderfully diverse
And when combined they don’t rhyme, they harmonize.
Only one picture, only one image, only one name.
Didn’t anyone ever tell you? Different can be the same.

On writing poetry and other things...

"I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got."
~ Sabrina Ward Harrison

Let Him be your peace

Violent beatings of your heart drive your blood pressure upward. The pace of your breathing increases, and it seems this time you will drown for sure. And then... strange how life jackets are found in the form of empty syrofoam cups and half-submerged crates full of 500 thread-count linen sheets.

Let not your heart be troubled middle-aged one. He will carry you when you are unable to walk, just as he did when you were young.

On sitting in Starbucks looking into Moravian mirrors.

These glass walls seem liberating. They lie. They tease. They show you where you could be if you weren’t currently tied down to this chair, tied to this life. These never ending tasks weigh heavy on you, and you are tired. This constant stream drains the delight from it, squeezing it dry. And this is not what you wanted it to become. But still you rest content to see your hands form something, although not as you imagined, it remains beneficial. And you will always welcome this growth, though it comes slow.

You look constantly forward, waiting for the moment to become more. When will you dare glance in the mirror to see who you are now, and what you have already become? Hide. Go ahead, try. Turn off all the lights. But here it won’t matter. This glass prison lets only light in and forces you to see you. Maybe now you will remove the black cloth. The mourning period is over, it is time to move on, to see what this tragedy has made you.

This is the moment that you knew…

…the moment that left you so completely unsure, that leaves you feeling lost and confused. But these come, and they will go, these feelings of insecurity and non belonging. You will wake up tomorrow and you will feel completely loved.

You wish that you were lighter of heart and mind sometimes, but these thoughts come like water from crying clouds, unable to be stopped, pulled down forcefully by gravity. And you realize you are equally being pulled downward, unable to slow your descent. So you welcome the earth with two arms spread out wide. And for the first time you truly believe beyond yourself.

You say to yourself, “It will never be the same again.”

And it will never be the same again.

Oh Ulysses, how hard you fight reasoning around this inhumanity.

Facing future thoughts with past places in mind

You slip your sunglasses on. The sun washed whiteness that fills your eyes hurts a little, but you can’t turn away. Such a beautiful sight. Beyond the limits of happen-chance until the furthest reaches of perfect planning you find yourself. You can’t go back. You can’t change it, and you wouldn’t for anything.

And though it seems that all could crash around you, that you would remain with nothing left in your hands but your five fingers balled up and tucked under your palm, you face these future thoughts with unbelievable determination. 27 months isn’t that long, you tell yourself. But you remember well that day that seemed to last eternity, dragging out, full of sorrow, full of loss. And that was only 27 hours. But this can’t be the same. It won’t be, you tell yourself. So you face it with a positive outlook, all the while wondering if the ones you love will be here when you return.

This is just one of those times where you have to jump. Jump into the unknown, into the uncertain, into the unending change- one of the only constants in your life until this point. Your heart beats fast, and still you feel peace. Unnerved, you remain calm. He is greater than you will ever have to be. He will go with you. You will be ok. It will be ok.

Love is an impossible thing, impossible to figure out, impossible to be without.

My sister came to visit me today. It left my heart feeling unusually warm. I love that she is my sister, that we are more honest with each other than most people, that she shows me parts of me that others don’t, things that I want and should change that aren’t necessarily up to par.

We ran a lot of errands. That is our thing, hop from store to store buying things that we need that we don’t want to go shopping for by ourselves because it is much more fun going with someone you love. We went to world market and bought two baskets, one for each of our parents, and we filled them up with random things that we thought they would like. From Christmas ornaments to chocolate-y treats and beyond we filled it with things that reminded us of them.

Perhaps we were driven by our morning conversation over coffee. I don’t know how we got on the subject of one day being with out them, or the possibility of one day one of them being without the other and how hard it would be for them. Though sad, you have to think of these things. They spur you forward to a consciousness that everyday is valuable, that nothing should be taken for granted. You never really know how much longer you will have with someone. So if you love them you should tell them. And not just once so that you can check it off of your list of things to do, but everyday, in some way small or big. It doesn’t matter how you say it, but THAT you say it.

I don't think they make stopper plugs for this.

Left foot up. This thing is harder to raise in me than to put down, to quell with an unrefined manner of violent battering.
Right foot down. It is easier to cast this thing to the ground than to continue carrying this unbearable weight.
Right hand up. It comes to my forehead under my command, this effort is strenuous. The sweat has no end, no relief exists. Dehydration at this point might be a good thing. Maybe then I could save my shirt from the possible threat of arm-pit stains. Maybe I can preserve it’s perfect whiteness.
Left hand down. My shoe has slipped off the back of my ankle. It was clearly an accident, but since he stepped on it, my heel has felt constant pain. (In fact, my heart feels just the same, mildly bruised.) A pinch of blood seeps through my sock, yet I remain unaware. I will discover it later I am sure.
Sometimes not knowing is easier. Sometimes there isn’t enough to be gained in the falsities sold to you, in the lies disguised as truth, in the breaking that comes unloose.
Run, Run and gather it up. Your soul is leaking.

Silent moments in foreign places

The garden was the start. Just as the flower begins underground wrapped in the warmth of the heat-filled earth, so I began, just a seedling, just a thought of all the things I could become. I've searched for years with no resolution, with all the resolve I could muster. I will find it in myself I said, but now I begin to wonder. I wonder if the seed by itself is enough. Can it grow without water, without sun, without earth? Can love grow without sustenance, passion, and work?
It’s quiet here. I like that. The trees barely rustle, the birds chip, but they leave me to my thoughts. In fact, they add to them. The nature of the thing is its nature itself unselfish, always giving, unrestrained. I seek it in earnest and find it not. Have I done wrong by it? Were my words too harsh? Will it not return to me? I said it because I like to lie to myself, to hide my need for this thing, this beautiful thing, this belonging.
But still the pebbles on the ground seem soft in comparison to my soul, hardened and calloused-over by the “reality” of the world. When will I realize the “reality” is no reality at all? When will I rebel against the traditional social norms set before me? Would he forgive me if I did?
It sounds like rain, it’s time to run and hide again.

Believe in what you once renounced. Hold tight to lost dreams and make them real again.

You have fought. You have given up. You have found yourself in this in-between, this unsure, waste-filled place. But still, giving up is not an option. Giving up happens far too often, and you are unwilling, UNWILLING to end up like they did. This thing it weighs on you, it beats your soul down, it holds your heart hostage, and you are unable to find yourself, among the disdainful, among the hateful, among the dead.

Beat fast heart, feel alive. You will only live once, you will only feel alive if you wish it into reality. Only you can make this change, only you can fight against the judgment of others and say eff them. I will be who I will be and that is what I will be, regardless.

You love and you love hard. You cry and you hide it. You will stay this way, and you will feel ashamed. Why does your heart have to be so shadowed-over, so hidden, so heartless. When will you face Him? When will you face them? When will you say what you really feel? When will you finally call him near and tell him all the things that you really want to tell him?

You doubt so many things; you believe in so many more. You hurt, you hurt, and you never tell a soul. You fool.

And as you read words you don’t understand, as you fight this battle hand-to-hand, as you see past this public demand for more than you planned to give, you discover more of yourself. You discover that you are so much weaker than you thought; you are so much stronger than you ought to be in some regards, just all the wrong ones. Stubborn soul, for some reason you can never find this balance. For some reason you will never have this solace. Wander, wander far. Never return, never descansar.

Four in the morning comes a little early, but this makes you feel young again.

...Not that you ever felt old, just that you may have started to grow that mentality of the old, of the same-old-same, the mundane life of “adulthood.” You fight against the norm. You beat your fists against the wall, determined to take this “expectation” face to face, to stare it down. It will become as nothing.
You will become what you want to be.
You will become what you should become.
This has become more than just you. You are just one piece in this billion- plus piece puzzle of humanity, to this world, vast, torn-down, broken.

And as you look on the past, you see all the pieces of your life fit. They just came together, seemingly effortless. But this, oh this won’t be.
You will fight.
You will carve your will into existence.
You will claw your way to this end.
Resignation is unquestionable. Positive self-formation is inevitable.
Now, it is your turn to fit. Now, it is your turn to stand out.

growing up slowly

Said puppy has been adopted. Although currently not named, she comes home tuesday. I am ecstatic. I am nervous. So this is what responsibility feels like?

Blank pages that need writing...

Sunny days that render smiles brings about this youthful feeling. It almost makes you think, maybe you aren’t growing old after all. Maybe you are growing young.

Timeless laughs with friends that live far away, but that live close to your heart, makes the physical distance seem insignificant. Oh, wait... it is.

What if they sold true happiness in a bottle? Would they name it Red Bull? Would they sell it for double the price in a convenient store than in the supermarket? I think they would. In fact, they do.

Do you think wearing headphones for 8.6 hours straight is detrimental to your hearing health? Even if you keep the volume down?...well, “down” most of the time anyway.

Have you ever tried to keep your eyes open for over one minute? Your eyes don’t like it all that much, they cry. Maybe you shouldn’t try it, never mind.

Playing air guitar just isn’t as good as playing the real thing. Guitar hero is close, but still not as good. Besides those little plastic buttons do nothing to help you build the necessary calluses to play for hours without stopping. Plastic is made to be recycled, period.

I’m procrastinating, and I like it. I probably won’t like it as much later on though. Oh well.

Buying a watch for yourself and telling the sales woman that it is a gift so that she will gift wrap it is a bad thing, or not? I just really like to open presents, what can I say.

Getting cigars at discount prices because you pretend to be ignorant and in need of advice is fun, especially if the cigar salesman ends up offering you one of your favorites. Call me a secret shopper, but I was just testing him; and well, that man knew his cigars.

It oddly annoys me when people collectively decide that they don’t like someone when they don’t know anything about them. Did they even talk to him? Did they even learn his story? I don’t think they did. I don’t think they cared. Judge quickly, fools; don’t love unconditionally, fine; but I don’t care what you think. They saw what they decided they wanted to see. A shame I say, he was kind.

I’m tired of the judgment of people. I have finally decided I don’t care what they think. If they want to learn me, they will, and if not, they won’t. I can’t change it. I don’t want to. I want to meet the people that want to listen, that will care, that will love- more than anything, love. And I find once again, that love is all that really matters. Oh, quiet heart, you have finally learned.

Not only I...

Believing with eyes wide shut is often easier than learning to jump while looking down. At least then we can fake the truth and tell ourselves that the distance to the bottom isn’t quite as far as it really is. Who knows, maybe it won’t hurt as much as we think it will to jump head first into this thing, this unabandon, this definite foreseen giving of ourselves to something bigger than we could ever be if we remained alone, detached, and cold.

AND all along you didn’t realize that you had my attention, my affection, my heart. I don’t believe in this ridiculous idea of love, the impractical, the nonsensical. Those are feelings and they will fade, but something that will stay is this volition, this volition to love you at all costs, to fight until I am unable to stand, until my knees have unwillingly retreated to the ground, brought down by defeat, by something greater than this love could bear. But don’t you know that it can bear quite a bit? Don’t you know how big my heart is? Don’t you know it is seeking you out?

And not only my heart by itself... no, that isn’t enough. It will not be able to stand alone, but behind it rests a force greater than you or I. Bigger than anything I could ever hope to be. That love, that love, It is like iron, like honey- strong and sweet. Nothing will break it and nothing will ever refresh you like it will. Even though the pieces are frayed and untied. They represent so much more. They sit and they wait, because they know better than you or I that they will be tied back together and this time it will be stronger than it ever was, this love. And before it was like iron, steel- unbreakable. But nothing is unbreakable you say, and yes, you are right. But don’t you know that almost everything that has been broken can be mended back together again?

And though it still hurts me, and you, we can get past this, this wall, this hindrance. It will become like glass shattered, it will spread as tiny pieces, unable to hold back even water, cold, frost, dust. It will not be able to contain any season, even the least of them, just as He won’t retain our sin, even the least of them, if we just ask Him not to.

secret cities

You found yourself wandering, no direction, no true goal in mind. You like to wander about, to see a city, to see a people. A city is more than the bricks used to build it, you are well aware. Just as you are aware that people are more than the corporeal shells that they occupy. There is something else, inside, tucked away, attempting to remain safe and away from the hurt of the world. At least that is how you feel.

But of recent you feel a little different then you did previously. You have shown your heart and it hasn’t been rejected. You have shown it and it has been loved, it has been admired, it has been accepted for just what it is, fragile. You find that the previously regularly taken emotion-control-pill that held you back is getting hard to swallow. Good, your prescription was running out anyway, and besides it costs too much.

You feel a little liberated and your heart feels lighter than usual, which seems near impossible considering it’s average level of lightness. Air weighs more you think to yourself.

Regardless, thank you friend for being one of few who occupy my daily thoughts in the quest to better myself. Thank you for being one of many that will forever have my heart.

l'onesta'

"La paura ci impedisce di vivere e sei troppo giovane per avere questa 'protezione'
sempre davanti a te. Potresti perdere l'occassione di essere felice per questa maledetta paura."

oh amica, hai ragione.

Not yet..

It hurts, this distance. I just met you and now you’re gone. I just left you and it’s already been too long. I believe I found another part, another part of my heart.

People make you who you are. You see who you want to be in them. You see who you are not. You see what you could become if you put yourself to the task of self-improvement, self-renewal, and self-imbuement with idealistic ideals. And still it points to the self. When will you get beyond it? Never probably, but in this context being selfish isn’t a bad thing. You will turn who you are into helping others and nothing but benefit can come from it. Or so you hope.

And hope you do, continually in fact. Sometimes it seems silly to have so much hope in so little. To believe, to believe in not believing, to not know what to believe, all of which rests in you, completely confident yet unsure. You fight this battle with eyes closed because you can’t see who you are anymore. Certainty has died in you, along with doubt. You remain in the middle, always in the middle. Go somewhere, pick something, become someone already. Please.

But you know, just like I know that I haven’t decided just yet. Not yet. But I will, I promise.

The cracked facade has had repainting
The orphan boy has had renaming
And still underneath, the same, the same
The hurt, the blame

Remedial practices attempt to piece this together again
Failing altogether to remember the past
The same path taken twice leads to the same place
And again I face the same, the same


Empty empty this head, this heart.
They struggle to rise above
Quick quick this end, this start
They struggle to come undone

The breath is spent
Beyond repair, this tear
Torn loves lost, rent
Too much to bear

Too much to carry alone
Too much to disown
Too much to return home
Too much, too much

If you ask me I’m ready.

I like very much reading your words smattered upon electronic pages. They show your heart, some of which I’ve seen before and some of which I haven’t. I like seeing the parts you haven’t shown me. They make me smile uncontrollably.

I’m taking it one step at a time and I think I’m getting better from it. If only I could see from two closed eyes, I would be much better off. I can’t seem to find the courage to open them just a bit and finally admit the thing I see when I look in the mirror that is my heart. Though fuzzy and dim-lit it represents you better than anything that you have encountered so far.


It was a funny encounter in the parking lot. You didn’t know you saw me, but you did. You saw a part you probably didn’t imagine existed, but still you didn’t see me and it makes me wonder... what is it exactly that people see when they see you. They see your height, eye color, name brand or lack thereof of the shoes that are currently protecting your feet from the dry dusty earth. But still do they see you.

Do they see your soul and how breakable it is?
Do they see all of the dreams that you have for yourself that are still just dreams, that are too big for you to even let escape from your lips because you are so afraid of failure and never being able to attain them?
Do they see the vastness of the love that you carry around in your heart pocket with you everyday?
Do they know that you just wait for the opportunity to find someone to dole it out to?

Is it too much to ask to meet someone who will say, “ I got you, if you got me. And even when you don’t got me, I still got you.”

Is it too much?

Feeling upside down, unwilling to say what I really feel.

Unable to think, stopped at a wall, you stand motionless with the exception of the gentle tapping of your left foot on the tiled-floor in rhythm to the music that floats in your head. The same song, seven hours on repeat and you still haven’t gotten sick of it. That is a quality you really like about yourself. Other people overlook it.

Oddly enough you can’t think straight, but you write it all down anyway. Maybe one day it will make sense. Maybe one day the truth will come out. The truth you are the opposite of what you claim to be, that your heart is softer than you make it out to be, that you need someone to love you. But right now that is just not the case. They waste their words; they fall dead before they hit your ears, never to enter, never to seep down from your head into your heart.

You turn pink. He whispered something in your ear. It was far from inappropriate, but you are just that shy. His lips that close to your ear turned you inside out.


Kindly talking behind their back never was wrong; you spoke nothing but good things of them. Too bad you were too scared to say it to their faces. Maybe they would have loved you more, maybe they wouldn’t have left.

Candidly you speak. You shouldn’t, sometimes your words aren’t censored. But now it is too late, and you already let your secret out. You care more than they think you do. You care so much you cry for them when they aren’t there to see you. Your heart can’t take it for much longer. Do something.

Uncomfortable feelings of whiplash are nothing compared to finding all your playing cards in messy piles- don’t they know that you organize them every time before you put them in the box?

Fighting with your eyes closed, fighting all the while. You turn to black sheets of paper with names scribbled out in bright orange colors. Blankets of snow, reflect the sunlight and blind you, you are unable to get past this next hill. It is too steep. It is too steep.

It's you, just you.

Broken, it’s effortless- beyond the hope of recognition, beyond the scope of comprehension. You take it and it gives. You break it and it bends, and still takes shape, and still makes waste. And if all this was left up to you, you would walk away forever. You would never return. This feeling of hopeful asperation, it remains in the corner of a soul that is loved, and you don’t even have that. You can’t even see past the past. It is ever before you. Always following, reminding, tripping you up.

And if this is what you dreamed of being when you were young, then you dreamed too small.

You didn’t challenge the rules like you said you would. You didn’t make fake the towers of conceit, the lies that defeat, the place of unbroken hate.
You claim.
You claim.
You lie.
You lie.
But this has been put in place and still you aren’t sure you believe it, and still you wish you were stronger, but you are not. You are a face that sheds tears unseen, that turns away from friendship because you are too afraid to lend yourself to something that isn’t you, because you can’t be sure of keeping it whole. It depends too much on them. You can’t see past yourself, you refuse to let people help, you can’t answer all the questions or didn’t you know that? You can’t save face this time. They can see right through you. They told you last night. Instead of change, you decided to hide even further away. You will remain here in this place. And you will be forgotten, because you can’t be remembered for something you weren’t. You can’t be sheltered from all hurt, but you try your damnest. And you fight the thing that gives you life. You defeat yourself. You do it, no one else. No blaming anyone. It’s you, just you.

Complacent confusion

Take it back summertime. I remember when you wholly belonged to me, when I didn’t care, when I was good without trying, when every thought came easy, when I didn’t feel the need to recognize my romantic self Oh “feelings”, “feelings”, “feelings” I wish you would go away.
And now what? …that gradually growing feeling of complete inadequacy is slowly heaping itself upon my head and soon I won’t be able to breathe. I don’t know if I like it very much. I don’t know if I’m cut out for this life of endless hoops and back road mazes. “Feeling” lost. Why do they get to decide what is right and wrong? Hypocrites, the lot of them. They claim they want you to grow and become more than you are, but is it true growth when they point in only one direction and tell you that you must go that way? I don’t think it is as “liberating” as the claim. I laugh at them, and they don’t know it. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to challenge them to their faces, but for now who am I? What do I know? I think I am with Mann on this one. “It is a fact that there is no society in the world so dumb and hopeless as a circle of literary people who are hounded to death as it is. All knowledge is old and tedious to them. Utter some truth that it gave you considerable youthful joy to conquer and possess- and they will chortle at you for your naïveté…literature is a wearing job. In human society, I do assure you, a reserved and skeptical man can be taken for stupid, whereas he is really only arrogant and perhaps lacks courage. So much for ‘knowledge’.”

This feeling of indifference is not motivational. I can’t see past the second page of this tattered book because the remainder has gone missing. They stand alone, in another room, where unseen eyes guard them every hour. To be beyond this place would be relief, a thing I can’t currently possess. Creep up, creep up, and crush me down, I dare you.

Thoughts of futile endeavors begun with empty words.

They never carried you far before; what makes you think they will now? Taking and giving never seemed this hard; yet every time you reach out to grab, your fingers don’t function how you wish they would. Instead of gently picking the love from the palm of his hand, you smack it down- spilled on the ground, empty and wasted.

What has this become, this mentality? You can’t seem to let it go, and you won’t even try, you stubborn soul. You feign kindness and love, but least love yourself. You say that isn’t the case, but we know the truth. We know.

You are so unwilling, and I am tired of trying to make you care. Stay still, breathless; I don’t care. Go far from this place and never return; I don’t care. Tear down these bridges of beautiful memories; I don’t care. But finally be what you claimed you would become, because I do care.

“I’ve faced the same and walked out alive,” you heard her whisper underneath propped-up sheets, a flimsy tent that sags in the middle, a slight representation of your soul, seemingly strong but able to be blown into nothingness if a strong-enough wind presents itself.

Take it for what it isn’t.
Leave it for what it is.
Break the broken until nothing remains.
Grieve for what you cannot love anymore.
Finally be what you claimed you would become, because I do care.

I couldn’t have prepared myself for this fall, shattered in pieces curled on the floor.

You were never where you needed to be- always away, never near, hiding in the dark corners of your heart. You never let the sunshine in, never showed him what you wanted to become, and so he never learned you. And to this day you regret all the words you never said, all the times you never shared wrapped in his arms underneath the covers sharing softly-spoken secrets. But lighting doesn’t strike the same place twice. True love is a gift and you let it drift away.

Maybe next time you will think twice before you throw it all away.

c'e'... non c'e'

Oh enough quiet heart…. I wish you would be louder. I wish you would see deeper, I wish you would feel more. But go ahead, back into the corner, where you know that you are safe, protected from the outside, protected from the hate.

You give advice you do not follow and where does it leave you? “Whole” you say and “Half of what you could become,” he adds quickly after. I’m confused and the rubble surrounding me won’t let me see my way out safely. I climb and climb and stay in the same place unsure of the cost, unsure of my fate.

But take it by the hand just this once and find a way to shake these thoughts; they hold you down, they crack your foundations from the inside out, until nothing would be able to stand. Oh enough quiet heart…

And well this is what we became…. An empty room with no chairs to rest on.

Monday, January 18 made me think twice.

I think it has been far too long since I last met myself. When did I get this busy? When did extraneous things become so important? Four letters and a remixed tune brought me back. And here I am again. I couldn’t find the key for the longest time, and I found I had to break in just to catch a glimpse of what I used to be.

Romping about through invisible snow still leaves me feet soaking wet

Strap them on, the boots for blistery weather. No matter how much you prepare the flurries still seep in, and you find your socks steadily growing damp. So you trek back to the house, change them, and head back out. This time the outcome is the same. The subtle chill in the cracks between your toes brings this to your attention. Again you return and change. By the end, you have found that you have travelled back and sought change more than a dozen times now.

This time you double up, two pairs masterfully attached to your limbs by blue waterproof duct tape. And although this time it takes a little bit longer, after a while, your waterlogged socks make a squishy noise with every step you take. What more will it take? Should I stay inside, ignoring the call of nature? Should I stay in, alone, and sustain myself with a well-built fire? You ponder this for a while with your elbows resting on your knees and your head propped up by your hands as you sit teetering on the edge of your blanket-laden bed.

A knock comes to your door and you think to yourself, “Who else would be out in this weather?” As you make your way across your living room the sunshine peeking in through a crack in the pulled-shut drapes catches your attention. You gently crack the door open and peer outside, the postal man stands on your door step dressed in his finest pair of postal shorts and a short sleeved shirt. He has a bright yellow smiley face pin attached too his lapel. He looks at you bewildered by the presence of your winter clothes layered one upon the other. He chuckles to himself as he informs you kindly that the temperature today is a lovely sun-filled 73 degrees, “and well isn’t it nice?” You play if off of course, informing him that you "just got these and wanted to try them on" because you are ecstatic about an up coming ski trip in a few months. You lied and he believed you.

You have always lied, and for the most part they have always believed you. The truth is you have never set foot outside of your front door. You have never been out in nature, you have never even tried. You have just lied and lied and lied, until you finally believed it yourself. When will you stop? When will you realize the snow had never come and that it has always been a mild 73 degrees? And as this realization sets in you slowly work open the package with no return address that the postman has delivered. You smile to yourself as you pull out a set of flip flops from underneath the packing peanuts. You slip them on and for once in your life you give it a chance. And as you swing the door wide and step outside, you feel truly alive for the first time in your life. And this time, there is no turning back.