Eggshells.

Fear. A simple, one syllable word that I live with everyday. Two absent-minded fools expect me to. They expect me to walk on eggshells. Any normal child can tell you that eggs are a beautiful part of childhood. It sounds strange, but it’s true. Sometimes the strangest of things are the truest of things as well. We grow up eating eggs for breakfast every Sunday morning. We grow up coloring eggs, hiding eggs, and filling them with sweet treats to enjoy, but not all kids get to enjoy them. Not all kids wake up every day to colored eggs. Some wake up to eggshells. Some kids wake up to broken promises and dreams scattered across the surfaces they trace with the souls of their feet. The surfaces I trace with the souls of my feet. The eggs I walk on are white, hollow shells that splinter my heart with each crack. Each crack represents the crumbling pieces of my heart, ceaselessly portrayed on the floor with each cautious step. Breathless they fall. Lifeless I live. Each night I collect the shells, hoping that the pieces of my heart will be picked up as well, but they aren’t. They’re stuck to the livid tiles we graze upon every day, constantly being smeared, destroyed, and walked upon. My blatant heart aches from the steps of hatred, theft, shame, guilt, pity, and jealousy, that are echoing through the footsteps being smeared across the floor. There is no cure. There is no love. There is no heartbeat. Only dead eyes walk on the eggshells now, collecting a broken jar full of pieces of hope.

Memories.

Memories. Fading away in the distance like the vibrant sun does every day. You think you’ll remember them, but you won’t. Bits and pieces will never leave, haunting you ever so slightly when you least expect it, but all the so-called lifelong memories you thought would never leave you, have already quickly fled your mind. We spend so much time trying to remember, that we cause ourselves to forget. The boy you swore you’d never forget, has already been forgotten. You have quickly replaced his shoes with someone else’s, and once you hold the laces you try to re-tie the knots, but you realize that you forgot how. You have already forgotten how before you even took the time to remember. You still feel the feelings, but find yourself beginning to forget the thoughts, so much that your memories blend together into a big knot. The laces are tangled with memories. Un-tie them if you can or forever hold your peace. Your idea of the perfect life slowly slips away from your mind with each gnawing breath, sub sequentially allowing you to fall into slipknots. They hold you by your neck. They caress you with the feeling of a mother’s love, but it’s all fake. It’s all just a memory you thought you experienced, but instead it’s just a part of your messy web of knots, making its way to your pile of untangled laces that you add to your collection of shoes. The shoes you wore last year, didn’t fit you last month, and the shoes you wore last month didn’t fit you last week, so you switched out the laces, only to realize they were the wrong style, or the wrong type, they didn’t feel the same, they caused you to forget, so you quickly removed them, but it was too late. You had already forgotten. Today you switched the laces in the shoes you wore last year, but as you tried to fit back into them, as you tried to fit your stitched heart back into the memories you once shared, you realized you had already moved on. You had already forgotten and the shoes no longer fit. You do all that you can to re-imagine, to re-invent a way to make them fit. You cut the laces apart, thinking that if you can just loosen the shoe, if you can just forget the new memories and replace them with the old, that you will remember. You think that you will remember the thoughts, and that the thoughts will connect to the feelings, but you have cut them off. The laces fall to the floor like the pieces of your innocent mind that is now vastly spread across the room. Empty. Your subconscious has been cleared by your thoughts, because you spent too much time trying to remember, that you forgot all the memories and have now filled the empty lace holes with the fake memories you have created for yourself in your little cardboard house. Your little cardboard house full of all the dreams you had as a child, should be blatantly be shoving the memories into your face. As you stare into the walls that are covered in tears, filled with laughs, and dented with hope, you think you see something. You think you feel something. You think you thought something you had once thought long ago. But instead, you stare right through the walls. You look right past the memories. You rip off the shoes in a hurry, in a fit, because you cannot feel, you cannot touch, you cannot think, you cannot see, and you cannot dream what you used to, but it’s no use. Your lucid mind has lead you into the white house. You are living a dream while being awake. You are consciously aware of everything, yet absorbing nothing, because everything you ever hoped for had fled from you. You find yourself digging a hole. A pit. A pit where your memories might lie. You pray, you hope, and you dig, but they aren’t there. Your translucent mind has fled from your soul. While you were asleep, you were consciously awake, and you threw out all the shoes, and re-tied all the laces. It appears you were never able to un-tie like you had wished, so you just pieced things back together until your mind felt content enough to work. Until your mind felt well enough to function correctly, and you somehow were able to wake up and live again. Now you hopelessly hang by the slipknots around your neck. You look at the sun fading away in the distance. You think maybe you’ll remember, but you’ve thought wrong. Your thoughts will continue to haunt you until the day you die. But the day is coming quickly, for the slipknots you are creating keep getting tighter and tighter. You’ve spent so much time trying to remember, that you’ve allowed yourself to forget your life.

Welcome Home.

You confuse me. Your mind, so manipulative yet impulsive, I am drawn to stay. How long will I stay? How long will allow myself to configure out the pieces to a puzzle I have yet to find? No one knows for sure. Not even I. Your piercing brown eyes hold secrets of their own as well. What they have seen, I have yet to see. What they have experienced, I have yet to experience or even know. Days pass by, but I cannot comprehend the mysterious whispers your lips compel from deep within your soul. They are masked. They are masked by the walls that have built up overtime, from the people you loved the most, and thought could hurt you the least. Instead, they tore, and they spit, and they added bricks to your little stone house that you have concluded around yourself. I have yet to break it down. I throw stones, but they only break the surface of the person you know. The person that lives inside the little brick house of fear. You write on the walls of your little brick house, hoping that one day, someone will pass by and realize. That someone will pass by and realize that you are there. That you have been there all along, and you want to escape and let your soul free. Let me tell you my friend, I have been reading the writing since the first time I passed. I have been reading, and deciphering, and decoding the scribbled notes on the wall that echo your reality. I have watched as people have taunted you. Your eyes would look out the cracks created by the stones people throw, and you would allow yourself to watch. You would allow yourself to watch as people spit on you, and lied to you, saying they would let you out of the little brick house. They would lure you in and allow you to stay by the cracks for a while, and you would stay. You would stay in hope that what they said was true, but it wasn’t. In the end, they threw another brick on the pile. Every night, I would come by and hope that you were peering out the cracks, but you never were. I wanted to tell you I was ready. I wanted to tell you that I’m ready to start tearing down the house. That I’m ready to start destroying the walls piece by piece, and destroying the people that try to stop me, but you were never there. Months went by, and you would try to break out yourself. You would try to break out by searching for that one person who loved you for who you were, and wouldn’t throw stones at you when the walls weren’t there. People passed by every day, but you finally gave up and left. You left in search of someone. You left in search of someone who would help you tear down the walls to your brick house. Along the way, I watched. I watched you find someone you thought was real, only leave you even more broken in the end than when you started your journey. While you were gone, I studied the bricks. I studied the walls that held your phrases of reality. I studied the people that caused you to write them there, and I realized something. I was one of them. I was a part of the hurt. I was a part of the pain inscribed into the walls you used to hide yourself, and I cried. I cried for days on end, knowing that I could have stopped you. Knowing that I could have erased my contribution just by walking up to the cracks and helping you out, but I had let you down. You had seen me. You knew me. You had already solved the pieces to my puzzled life, and you silently begged me to come over to the wall, but I never did. Instead of following you, I gave up. I climbed over the wall and began to discover the pieces to your puzzle. I stayed there for weeks, solving the puzzle to your life, and by doing so, I began to discover my own, until one day a stone was thrown. A stone was thrown not at the wall, but over the wall. I could not say how long I had been there, because I had never looked out the cracks until now. You had returned to tear down your house. You had found someone who loved you enough to erase the walls and destroy the pain. I was too late. It took me too long to realize what the walls read. It took me too long to discover in myself the missing piece that I too had been looking for. I realized the reason why I stood, watched, and waited by the little brick house, is because I longed for what was inside, but I was too late. I took too long to shift my ear towards the whispers. I took too long to look into the piercing eyes staring at me through the cracks. I took too long to tear off my own masks and show you how I truly felt. I took too long to tear off your masks and show you that I had been there all along. Now I am no longer confused, for you are not confusing. You tear down the walls piece by piece, and discover me there. I run to you. I run to your piercing brown eyes that hold secrets I have interpreted, and I listen to your lips as they whisper from deep within your soul. I have seen what you have seen. I have learned what you have experienced, and I weep. I weep as I begin to build my own little brick house, but you stop me and give me the last piece to my puzzle, that allows all my walls to fall down. We burn the pieces and share the stories, crying together as we realize how foolish we were not to notice each other all along, although we had been staring at each other the whole time. We finish building our new brick house. The brick house we built together. The walls are still filled with secrets, but not just any secrets. Our secrets. People still pass by throwing stones, but we don’t care. We both found the missing piece to our puzzle that allows us to fill the cracks and say, “Welcome home.”

The Past.

My mind wanders to unforsaken memories of the past, and I begin to wonder why things turned out the way that they did. My heart wants so badly just to fit into all the pieces of the puzzle that are layed before me, but I cannot find a way to make it fit. I replace my situations of old, with new memories that foreshadowed the empty crevasses of my unturned spirit, until nothing was left but the old memories again, forcing there everlasting existence into my life. My eyes cried for change, change in the past, as I tried to forget, tried to erase, but my heart stayed on the path, and would not turn back. As I am filled with remorse, I am also filled with hope. As tomorrow is a new day, so is the next. All leading to unturned seeds that define our reality, in which we call our everyday life. Our everyday life that we have walked, and pieced together, and replaced with new memories to try to erase the old, as our eyes burned with tears, trying to awake a change, begging to forget the excessive memories underlying the foundations of our spent days, filling our minds with remorse, and our hearts with hope. Yet our mind still wanders to the unforsaken memories of the past, and we still wonder why things turned out the way that they did.

Make a Wish.

Make a wish. Any wish in the world. It’s not a waste of time, I swear. But a wish is not worth wishing if it only loses hope. You make a wish, but the well runs dry. All the dreams you dreamt, have already passed, just like the speed of light passes around us every second, but we cannot fathom it. So is it like our dreams passing us in vaporized seconds that seem like figments of our imaginations. But we still make wishes about our dreams, just hoping that one day wishing on a star will be like getting a fresh start, and that our feelings would disappear from our existence of reality, and what we felt became what we feel , and what we feel became what we felt. We over think, we underestimate, we believe and are deceived, we deceive and are believed, yet we don’t know how we feel relates to how we felt, or how we felt relates to how we feel? We begin to wish on stars that don’t exist. We feel but don’t experience, because there are no stars to bring our experiences into action. There are no stars. Burning balls of gas that exploit light into the atmosphere seem so vivid and strong, but they are so weak. They are weak as we are weak. Weak souls walking in lifeless bodies of feelings we try to hide, and emotions we try to sever, but the underlying truth is that we have been wishing on stars since our first breath. The second we breathed our first breath, our heart began to beat to a rhythm of hope, a pattern of dreams awoke, stimulating our souls with a sense of purpose and a beauty of passion. But we fight, and we push them away throw them away, smothering the crevasses as to not let any part of us show through. Like a child covering their eyes in a dark room so they can’t see, we too have already been blinded by an inescapable light that resells within us, causing us to close our eyes, and forbidding us to look up into the sky, throw away our fears, and just dream.

Breathe.

Raindrops gracefully fall, seemingly shattering the ground with each hit. The iridescent light allows them to glimmer softly, making them almost seem to dance as they fall. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, as they hit the boiling ground, smelling of tar, releasing the scent of a hot summer’s night to anyone who passes. Breathe. Just breathe. Can we smell the fragrant scents of summer? Are we too busy holding our umbrellas, while we rush through the rain, to stop long enough to truly experience the beauty at its fullest? Let us stop. Let us wait. Let us breathe. Let us breathe as if we were breathing for the first time, allowing us to reminisce in the scents of our past, awakening the smells from days of old.

Freedom.

Tonight was a night of closure, as our innocent souls turned down winding paths of sincerity and hope. Tonight was a night of friendship, as we raced to see the sunset, only to drive farther away from our dreams and desires, erasing the light, as we cleared our paths with one clear sweep, lead by songs that echo messages from our past. Tonight was a night of trust, courage, and settling our fear of reality, that we hold on by a strand of dust blowing in the wind, guiding our hearts, and reassuring our minds. Tonight was the night of freedom.