Circadian

Eliot lay on his bed. The blinds shut the moonlight from entering, and his room door closed to the late night stirring of his suitemates. For now, it was only the little green flashing light of the smoke detector, and the eerie glow of Eliot's labtop computer, slowly playing his playlist of Coldplay.

Eliot sits up, and turns his head to his desk clock. 4:02AM. "One of those nights again," he sighs to himself. As he gets out of his bed, Eliot looks at the stack of paper messily compiled in the TO-DO box, clearly the only offending piece of his otherwise neatly kept room. After a slight hesitation, Eliot elects to not to dig into the pile. "I'll get to it tomorrow," he reassures himself.

"What to do now then?"

He thinks of the past; his life has just been a blur. A messy collage assembled with only half the effort, and a fourth of the time. As he sits in front of his computer, Eliot rubs his eyes, so many questions. Where did his motivation go? Where is his youthful drive? What is he doing with his life?

Coldplay's The Scientist comes on:

Nobody said it was easy.

Nobody ever said it would be so hard.

Oh, take me back to the start.

It was time for Eliot to go back to the start. As the song ended, Eliot climbed back into bed, awaiting his fresh start, one that would come with the newborn sun of tomorrow.

The Girl

She's one of those types that you kind of know, but to be perfectly honest, you don't really know her. A girl who is as mysterious as is appealing; the only true connection you've ever had to her was probably through mutual friends. The stories that people say about her, only peak your interest more, and you introduce yourself to her.

Turns out, she's not as straightforward as you once thought. There are so many things that are not covered by surface level conversations,only after some one-on-one time do you find out what she's actually really about. You like what you see and hear, but you're scared of commitment; is anyone truly ready at this time, at this age?

Despite your best efforts, things get a little bumpy, as your relationship to her is kind of on and off. There are disagreements, misunderstandings, and potentially even periods of denial. But in the end, there's always something that keeps pulling you back to her.

You're like a new person to me now, and I like what I see.

Faith.

My Sophie

My Sophie is like no other.

I've heard stories of her kind before: usually independent, strong-willed, and beyond a doubt capable. These stories almost always attached a sign of warning, to be extra careful not to get onto the bad side of one of them, as it usually ends poorly for me and others in my place.

But like I said before, my Sophie's different from them. She's irresistibly cute, and despite my attempts of getting her to fend for herself, I find myself caring more and more for her; she's unbelievably needy and I guess that's a sign of weakness on my part. I can't NOT care for her...who can resist those beautiful eyes?

What's worse, I find myself completely entranced by her. When she's there with me, I can't focus. I try, and I fail. I try again, and I find myself playing, spending time with her again. But on top of it all, I don't feel guilty in not doing my work, as I'm loving every waking moment with her. It's hard to say exactly why; in fact, it's frustrating me to no end. Is it Love?

She, however, does not always reciprocate. Her mood constantly fluctuates, leaving me in a quandary to guess the correct method of approaching her. There are times in which she has scratched me with her nails, bit my fingers to get me to stop, forcing me to rethink/reconsider my actions and choices. Whether it is in retribution, or merely out of spite, it hurts me more than any pain a stranger could inflict.

Why do I do this to myself? It's interesting to think of cases and pointing out everyone else's problems, but I guess when it happens to me, I don't process it as easily, nor do I realize what I've gotten myself into. I suppose the devotion gets me somewhere, or does it?

I guess my kitten isn't as different from the others as I thought.

Holiday

It's quiet.

Too quiet. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. 3:59AM, the digital numbers shown very clearly in contrast to the dark night. I put my phone back on standby, turn my gaze to the stars. Little pixies, dancing, flickering, swimming in a soup so black it can't be fluid.

Suddenly, a bright light approaches. I cover my eyes with a hoodie sleeve, and a train of taxi cars rush by and park temporarily by the curb. The driver who pulled up first, turned off the engine and stepped out of his car, leaving his headlights on. He was a man in his fifties, looked healthy and spoke with a voice to back it up. He looked at me, and said, "You need a ride, kid?" I told him, "No, I'm good. I'm not actually leaving."

The driver laughs heartily, and follows up his first question, this time with a curious undertone to his inquiry, "What are you doin' out here at 4 in the morning? Don't you college kids normally catch up on sleep during the Holiday?"

This question took me by surprise. I had completely forgotten that Holiday had arrived. I had been so busy, that it had completely slipped my mind. I thanked the driver for the notice, and ran back to my suite. When I opened the door (which was no longer propped open), everything dawned on me.

My suite was completely pitch dark, single rooms with all doors open, things rummaged through, missing clothes, electronics, people. The only response in the entire suite was an echo coming from the bathroom. After finding no one in the suite, I walk into the hallway, checking for other people. I called a few friends, texted a few others, trying to reach out. No use, no response. I ran down the stairs outside again, but the taxi drivers were already gone. There I was, standing alone in the middle of a larger network of labyrinths, unable to locate my way out. It's quiet.

Too quiet.

The Mirror

I don't normally hide things in my room, but this would have to be an exception.

I have this mirror, a special mirror, that no one has seen besides me. I keep it in the drawer, next to where I keep all my consumable sundries. It is medium sized and round, about the face of perhaps a small medicine ball. It is framed with a silver-gray pewter finish, and the mirror itself has been kept clear and shimmering through careful maintenance and cleaning.

This mirror is not like any other mirror. In the contrary, it doesn't show me what I expect to see. It doesn't show me, what I want, need, or think to see. Rather, it shows me the things that few people are gifted to see, let alone speak up about. I'm not sure when I first found this mirror. I'm not even sure how long I plan on using it. Whenever I try to put it away, I somehow find myself looking into it again, asking it for confirmation, expecting the contrary.

In times when I see vanity and dressing up, my mirror shows me times of relaxed, sloppy comfort. In times when I see intelligence, my mirror shows me foolishness. When I feel sadness, my mirror shows me ecstasy and unparalleled joy. My mirror is perspective; it brings me down when I'm high and prideful, it raises me up when I'm down in the dumps. After all, what is beautiful without ugly, what is smart without dumb, what is pride without humility?

Tonight is no exception. I've taken out the mirror again, not even knowing what to expect. As I peer into the glossy transparent-looking surface of the mirror, I feel myself falling into it, never stopping for anything, unable to stop for everything. Despite this, I don't feel out of control, just confused, perhaps lost. I know I am psychologically, physically, emotionally, and spiritually drained; my mirror shows a past me, a carefree young boy of 10, free of repercussions and social pressures, full of energy. Do I want to return to that state? Is that something to yearn for? Naivety traded in for freedom? Ignorance for bliss?

I smile, put the mirror back into its spot in the drawer, and slowly shut the drawer, turn off the lights, and walk out the door, making sure the door closed behind me.

The 5 Ws

Why, do things in life tend to turn out complicated?

Where, is the line between "close friend" and "crush"?

When, if ever, is it appropriate to look at that someone in a different light?

What, would the circumstances need to be?

Who, is in control of the situation?

Just thought it was interesting.

In the Club

He walks into the club. Loud music banging, people a plenty, drinks going around to those with bracelets. As he gets his hands marked with X's, he thinks about how it's just 3 months away until he gets one of those bracelets too. What will he do when he gets that bracelet?

He shrugs it off, and walks into the swimming pool of people getting down to the beat. As he gives out his high fives and his "how you doin'?" greets, he catchs up with his posse. They're all there; but he doesn't really "see" anyone but one person: her. She's visiting, seeing the show, catching up with the people, breaking it down like nothing else. He thinks to himself, "wow, she looks amazing tonight." He talks a deep breath, reassured that he did swallow that little brown pill of pride before coming to the club.

It's a good thing there is no side effect with alcohol, because he definitely brushed his teeth with his bottle of Jack before reaching the club. He walks into the ring of friends, and starts dancing, trying not to think about her. It's not possible. Every so often, he'll sneak a glance, sometimes more than just a peek. The realization then dawned on him; it's not her, it's all him, in his mind.

He's driving down the road of recovery, but hit a large pothole along the way. He is now stuck on the side of the road between acceptance and coping, with no spare, and little to no battery left on his smartphone.

Back to reality. He notices a fella, glowing pretty in the dark hall, staggers over behind her, and starts dancing with her. She gives the friends a weird look, clearly put off by this strange, sketchy guy who's behind her. After that song dies, the strange fella takes off, after getting a name. He takes a big gulp of air, tries to ignore it, but it's too much. After maybe 2 hours of various guys coming and going, he's seen enough.

He isn't sure if he regrets coming to the club. He put a lot of effort into putting a good show, and felt like he should reward himself with just a night out to have fun with friends. Maybe it was too soon, a tough, bitter aftertaste that essentially dictated his mind, and thus, the evening.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not. He doesn't know anymore. As he slumps back into his cold single dormitory room, he stares at the huge pile of work he has in the "To Do" pile, and the empty tray labelled "Done." With a heavy sigh, he picks up his pencil, and grabs the first sheet from the top of the "To Do" pile.

Memoir of an Insomniac.

I toss and turn, shut my eyes tighter than ever, as if I were trying to shut out all the bright lights of the sky, full of stars. Please let me go to sleep now, Mr. Sandman, I have class soon.

No go.

I sit up, still covered by the comforter, propped up by my pillows. As I sigh, I think to myself, "it's another one of those nights..." I lean against the wall next to my mattress, propped high like a castle. I feel slightly nauseous, but nothing too serious as to warrant a trip to the bathroom. I breathe deeply, and try to calm myself down.

Wait, I am calm. What's wrong with me then? It's not like I've had significant amounts of stress; school has just begun, and I'm still on top of my game. It's not like I've eaten poorly; I've probably eaten a more balanced, more nutritious diet, which happens to be more food than I've ever eaten before in the same time frame. And yet, despite being mentally free and physically fit, I find myself unable to enjoy the sweet, refreshing benefits of a good night's slumber, almost destined to walk the lonely, quiet path of the darkest night.

I conjure up an image...no, multiple images. I start scrolling through them. I stop at each one, examining them, carefully switching to the next one, absorbing all that is offered between the pixels. Pictures are worth 1,000 words, or so they say, after all.

I love it when you're happy, enjoying yourself, finding all aspects of success. That smile of yours shines ever more radiant, living so carefree, and yet, it pierces me straight to the core. I hurt more so than you or I could ever understand. I find myself quivering, even when I'm still wrapped in my comforter and additional blankets.

This isn't a coldness that affects the physical; but rather, the emotional. Pictures; it drives me crazy, being unable to appear in that photo beside you, unable to elicit that kind of smile, that kind of joy in you, unable to do what I've wanted to do, and always wanted to do for so long. It bothers me that no matter what I do now is completely useless in distracting me away from thinking. You'll always come up, in some way, shape or form. The one thing that would be able, truly, to comfort me, cure me of this silly insomnia, is that very thing that you're unwilling to give...any more, at least. That smile...it drives me crazy.

I've probably been more than guilty of becoming complacent, taking one for granted, and yet, in all honesty, I couldn't imagine life without you. All the mistakes that I've made in the past, I can't change the past, but now it's even too late to atone for them. Backing myself into an inescapable plunge into the realm of failure and remorse, I guess I deserve all the credit...or is it blame? I have a terrible habit in setting myself up for failure, time and time again.

Someone once told me, on difficult situations, "when there is a will, there is a way." My will tells me to keep fighting, to continue struggling, to simply survive, but where is the way? I am lost, without a flashlight, in pitch darkness, with nothing but memories and a cold heartbeat that drums out the rhythm by which I must continue. I've heard that there is a "medicine" that supposedly heals everything; a panacea I simply don't have enough, and can't get enough. That elusive "cure"...is time.

But I bring into question: What do you do when time doesn't make you feel better, and happens to only makes your symptoms worse? What then?

My English Teacher Told Me Transitions Were Important

It was dark, 3:30 in the morning, I had somewhere to be; a class at 10am, with reading left unfinished. It was so foggy, I wouldn't be able to recognize a close friend even if they were 15 feet away. There I stood, staring at the sky.

Staring at the sky, not that I was trying to see the stars, playfully hiding behind the mysterious veil of clouds and mist, nor was I intentionally trying to put off work by going outside. I haven't felt this way.

I haven't felt this way ever, really. A certain cause of hopelessness. The carpet is forcibly removed from underneath me, my goals and aspirations are moot. Somewhat like that disappointing winded feeling you get when someone twice your size punches you in the gut. I want to just stare at the skies, to ask what I've done to deserve this; an outcry for fairness. Life isn't fair.

That phrase. Life isn't fair. It's been repeated to me so many times, and yet I still come to expectations that I should have some entitlement to fairness like, as a 3rd grader would put it, "my name's on it." Maybe it's come down to what I deserve, what I need, and what I can't have. Sad how that is how the association works. Truly, I am tired.

I am tired, but more awake than caffeine-induced highs. I am tired mentally, beaten down physically, scarred emotionally. All I need now, is someone to insult me spiritually, but I'm not quite looking for the whole nine yards. I'm appreciative for how my close friends are willing to stay up with me through the wee hours, talking, equally frustrated that they can't do anything for me. They can't help me, no one can help me. I must walk this path alone, but I still can't help but think about my dear friends.

My dear friends, Some of you may have been in the loop, some of you have followed me along the way, charting my progress, cheering me up and on to keep going, keep living, keep trying. I can guarantee you this: what you've said, what you've done, I'm so thankful, no words can describe it. However, there's no use to keep going down this road; it will only set me up for failure. I could keep trying, but like I've said before, it's become such a moot point, that it's even a waste of breath to say "Wow, that was a waste of breath." If you all were wondering, I will, without a doubt in fact, keep living.

I will keep living. Living that unfair, unjust life that everyone else has constantly reminded us of, living that lie, where someone will come up, hug you, and tell you how everything is going to be A-OK, that things aren't as bad as they seem, how there's always another shot at someone else. Sorry, you don't quite know what you're talking about; that's not how it works.

That's not how it works. Love games, they're complicated. I put in all this effort, invested my heart like my life savings; I took a gamble, since there's no good payout without high risk involved. Unfortunately, I lost. The loss has consequences, and I must face it.

I must face it. I have no choice in the matter. The only thing that could make me feel better, is sold out, unavailable, used up down to the last drop, with no chance of ever coming on the market again. At least it's fitting that it is I that must carry this burden. I've been travelling on this road for so long.

I've been travelling on this road for so long. Just trying to find my way back home. But the old me is dead and gone.

The old me is dead and gone.

The Old Man

I step outside.

Almost like it was anticipating my entrance, a cold breeze blows past me. Shaking it off in black coldgear, shorts and running shoes, I start my journey. Looking around, I see a familiar sight: the old porter. He looked so much more impressive and intimidating when I was a prospective freshman: everything looked more so when I was a prospective freshman. Now, I could tell he has seen better days, fulfilling his duties with a heavy sigh, standing resolute in everything that nature throws at him, simply telling the time to anyone who even gives him half a glance.

I stop to chat with the old watchman. Tying my shoes whilst making conversation, I ask him how he's been.

He tells me of everything he's noticed. People coming and going, hardly anyone bothering to say hello; he tells me about the good old days back when people were more courteous. I laugh, just like a young'un, he jeers. He says how across the river of black asphalt, there has been a war going on. Buildings being torn down, piles of rubble and debris left to be cleaned up, free territories becoming occupied with newer, even bigger fortresses, laying claim to all of its surroundings. I tell him how I've ventured into that war zone often, within just two years of becoming familiar with the place, everything's changed. Old places that I've visited, turned completely inside out, it's like I've never been there. Even the local tavern was forced to close its doors. The old porter, in his worn-down green windbreaker, shakes his head in disapproval.

I blink, and breathe a breath full of chilled air. I stretch out, half expecting the porter to continue his story. I look up; the old man returns to his somber, silent watch. As I get ready to take off, "11:30pm", he whispers. I look back, thank him, and jog into the darkness, knowing he'll be here to welcome me back for when I return.