I can see clearly now...

The door opens.

Flash.

My head is spinning, my eyes still hurting from the initial shock of the bright sunlight reflecting through the clouds, off the snow on the ground. I think to myself, "I haven't seen this much snow in quite a while." As I rub my eyes clear of the glare, I see the path before me.

The normally green-brown lawn has turned to a pure white, a great contrast to the red brick buildings that stand resolute in the background. A shrill wind teases me as it floats by and reminds me to zip up my coat. I soon realize that my glove are sitting in my room still, unwilling to leave the comforts of a warm, heated room.

As I trudge through the slush, turned back from all the shoes and boots that have stepped before me, I exhale once, slowly, playing: making smoke rings with no pipe. As I wait to cross the street, a car slides 4 feet before slowly coming to a stop, rear wheels fishtailing behind the steering wheel. Finally, after gaining a sense of confidence back, the car slowly turns right and continues on its way, at half of the speed it came. I shrug and walk through the center's twin doors.

I grab a coffee, put down my things, pull out a book I've been meaning to read for a long time, and slide on my headphones. As the ambient sounds of the commons starts to fade out, I'm brought into Motown, listening to soul and funk. I dive into my book and breathe a nice, slow breath of relief.

Good times.

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.

Power of Music

These are my confessions. I ain't got no money; I know St. Peter won't call my name. You and me could write a bad romance. I used to rule the world; I used to be commander-in-chief of my pimp ship flyin' high. I've been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage and the sky is falling down. Who would have ever knew everything you own's in the box to the left. Just dance, it'll be okay, turn up the radio, blast your stereo now. Party every night, p-p-p-party every night. It all keeps adding up, I think I'm cracking up. I've been travelling on this road so long; just trying to find my way back home. Say it ain't so, I will not go; turn the lights off, carry me home. My tummy's a tumblin' and I'm feelin' kinda homesick; too much pressure and I'm nervous. Jesus can't save you, life starts when the church ends. I'mma fight, til we see the sunlight.

I've got a feeling.

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.

The Puppeteer

Sometimes I feel more alive when I'm breathing life into this inanimate beast. A cape of invincibility, I'm now immune to all of life's troubles and expectations. Becoming one with the majestic creature, my legs become its legs, my arms becomes its breathing, my rhythm and step become its strut.

As my partner and I count out silent cues, the beast shows off its impressive strength and agility through rolls, leaps and posts. The resounding sound of the drum beats in time with my own internal one, the cymbals crashing, marking my steps. No longer resisting the urge, the shiny red and black cat shakes his mane, gets low to the beat, tail wagging behind him. I've become the lion.

The crowd cheers as he carefully performs the stunts, laughs as he interacts with others, and applauds as he walks up to the edge of the stage, balanced on his hind legs; my partner and my faces are finally revealed. My role of puppeteer ends as the lights fade out and we walk out.

The lion has welcomed yet another new year; he happily returns to his much needed slumber. He will come back alive the same time next year, but the next puppeteers down in line will bring their own take; the lion changes his personality accordingly, adapting to the new year.

That is the will of Lion Dance.

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?