Essays

THE DARK
    The dark is my friend. It is familiar and kind. It does not judge. The dark offers time and opportunity for self reflection and exploration. It knows how to keep secrets and does it well. The dark is understanding. It is knowledgable and honest. The dark is its own soul, independant and confident. It is a shoulder to cry on, new tingling lips to kiss, and a soft cloud of laughter. The dark does not hide, it reveals what could never be explained in the light. It is torment to those that do not understand, but strength to those that learn from it. It is tranquility unachievable on any other level. The dark is my home. It is protective and comfortable. It is all encompassing and nurturing. The dark can bring out the worste, but if you allow yourself to be free within it, the best will perservere. You must learn and understand the balance of the dark. The dark is a child. It must be loved and cared for or everything it is in my life will disintegrate into vast blinding light. It is the light that destroys souls.

WEBS
    The web spins like a furious windmill. The hurricane blows ever closer as wispers dance between lips. The dried cracked lips bleed as they flutter in the face of doubt. The stutters spill out and the web grows thicker. It expands through the mind of a community and scares the guilty. The stutters increase and the wispers evolve to shouts. The web spins the long lines into a tangled, jumbled knot. Tighter and tighter the knot pulls until it pops. The acid of the webs life splatters through the streets exposing the guilty's anxiety and letting the heart of truth beat freely in the mind of an individual.

STORMY VISIONS
    The wind blows cold as the heavens churn. The wild fields dance. They warm in the breezes. The vast sky darkens to a hard, complicated blue. The clouds go gray and converge above. One drop, then one drop, then three drops, then five drops, splatter to the mud. Metallic liquid sheets down sideways purifying the air. The first sign of thunder echos. The sky turns black and the lightning turns on. The night light flashes and the tunder sings its lullaby. Rain creates the innocence of a child and deep, long, sleep ensues.

RAIN IN THE STREETS
    The rain begins to drip from the ocean of light. Slowly to begin but it quickens slightly with each translucent, silver piece that pounds into the ground  only to shatter into several isolated pieces. The small cold drops bounce from beneath me and land against my skin along with the other drops that hit me on thier way to join the others on the previously warm cement. The clouds flash and the winds dance as the saturated leaves heavily blow on the ever growing gusts of reasurement. The reasurement your still where you started even after getting lost in the tears of relief from the sky. The smell of the indian summer I had come to expect washes down the drain at the end of the street along with the leftover slivers of metallic clouds and the fresh smell of the newly cleaned, dimmed world rushes in with every burst of thunder. Those scents are gently intoxicating along with the feeling of smooth metallic liquid against my cheeks and the constant breezes in my hair with accasional gusts that surround me and accepts me into part of mother nature. I know I should be here; right where I belong. I sit on the soggy ground with my slippery, wet hair falling from behind my shoulders into my face while i look endlessly into the sky toward the shivering trees sparkling with reflections of the pearl moon on the shiny pieces of hope covering the skin of the tree and think and believe all the world has tought me from the tranquility of destruction in these few short moments.

NOT YET TITLED
    The lights glare down at me as i attempt to polish my thoughts. The blinding lights make it hard to focus and the echoing of once muted conversations and combinations of yelling and giggling is now like a pulse inside my head with every word accented and every sound sharp like the broken mirror before me that only magnifies the waves of light. The cold hearted vents show no mercy as they pump cold, gel textured air into my viens and I start to panic. My already heavy breathing quickens and gets deeper. The sores on my arms and legs from too many accidents start to ache individually as I began moving around the room. I was willing to go anywhere if it was quiet. Relentless chills engulf my body and I began to get dizzy. The fuzzy objects and people that apethetically surround me spin and make me sick. I do my best to stay quiet. I know if i ipen my mouth and let the words inside spill over my bleeding cracked lips to become the burden of others it will only cause conflict. The cieling leaks with only more coldness and the deafening sound of paint chipping off the walljs intimidates me to a point of confusion. There is rotting, pink gum on the floors and black, bold marker on the windows. The door is open, but I can't get out. I am pulled to the seat by an invisible force. The wieghts hang from ropes across my shoulders but someday I will stand up with all my strength from years of mental conditioning and walk through that door. I will bear all the pain of it but I will be free; free to live the spectacular life waiting for only me.