I wish I could dream myself a part in all the unrealized promises we inscribed into the air with our fingers. It must be a trick of the heart to believe we can filter through history so easily. It’s all about misjudging distance and time. It’s convincing ourselves the present moment is anything other than the present. It’s pretending like our two scripts are naturally part of the same narrative.

Friendship, present tense, the kind of wind that pushes the sail instead of whispers, is so often the distance between your fingertips and mine: and only sometimes as far as both our ropes will lasso–judging that both of us are willing to hold on. The future is a quilt. The future is the moments we weave together in the present to arrive in a mutually interconnected space.

The end of any college semester is both a relief and heart breaking. High school was easy. Everyone you know is close: the faces familiar. This is not true of the University. I have not maintained a meaningful, day-to-day relationship with anyone outside of my classes, and once the classes are over so goes the relationship. I think people are more comfortable using my mind than knowing it.

Going out for coffee once every 2 months and “catching up” is not friendship. That doesn’t mean that I don’t still admire and love the people that I meet and know; however, how does one actually catch up? How do you rewrite your past to include someone who was never there? How can you take seriously the proposition of someone listening to you when the second you walk out the door they’ve already forgotten you because literally you are a fraction of a fraction of their daily existence?

The end of the semester is always daunting because it feels like while I’m progressing, I’m also resetting. It’s funny how coming out of high school I actually bought into the idea that college would be “the best four years of my life.” I think the better phrase is actually “the next four years of my life.”

You go at life alone and hold to those who follow close behind. Apparently, I’m not much to hold to. Here’s to hoping that will change.

Cliche with an ironic twist:

*Exaggerate every syllable of the story with the Jimmy Fallon “Ew” voice for effect.

In response to:

It was dark like a shadow; the empty night was cold, and it felt like ghosts were watching from the underbrush. A leaf crunched loudly under my trembling feet, and I, thinking it was the lurking beast of the night, jumped in fright. The graveyard was as dead as the people laying in it. I was in the graveyard because my friends had dared me to go, so, being a high school teenager, I couldn’t resist giving into peer pressure. The wind was like a whisper from the dead of night. Suddenly a large crash happened right in front of me, and my vision went completely dark. I laid there, scared for my soul, but realized, in the darkness, that I had just tripped over a gravestone, and that it was dark because my eyes were closed. After I opened my eyes, I got up and walked forward. Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm, and I cried tears of fear because I was too young to die. After about thirty minutes of sitting in the fetal position I realized it was just a tree branch. Feeling really embarrassed, I began walking back, and started thinking of the heroic story I would tell my friends. Right as I was about to leave the graveyard, a rumbling like an earthquake shook the ground before me. Once again returning to the fetal position, I peered from behind my arms, and realized the galloping like sound had stopped. Looking behind me, I started laughing because I’d gotten scared from something so obvious: My favorite rainbow unicorn Steve! Crazy the scares you have in the darkness of the night.

The end.

P.S. The darkness was dark.

P.S.S. The night was as quiet as silence.

P.S.S.S. It was cold like temperature.

P.S.S.S.S. My spirit was as fortuitously strong as marshmallows.

The end end.


So clearly, by now, if you haven’t noticed, this story is a joke. As a writer I believe we are constantly challenged by the content choices we make, and the pressure to gain views and likes resulting in content choices, in any and all media outlets, I believe has really undercut the integrity and sincerity of the system and content as a whole. Throughout my time thinking on this subject, the one question that always seemed to originate was: What makes a writing piece successful, what makes it popular, and how does one get recognized for their work? The true answer is… I could not tell you for the life of me. I can laugh at the story I’ve written because I’ve seen popular writing and stories in tune with the cliche and overused concepts of pop-culture. When writing becomes a careless task, for the reader, it becomes a method of mindlessness, which may or may not be the philosophy of modern day anyways. I find this unfortunate; where has the importance gone in thought provoking action and learning? Where are the publishers and industry leaders soliciting and promoting this type of thinking? I believe I have a long way to go, and a beacoup des choses to learn. Cheers to the small voices deserving of so much more. Until then…

The end end end.