I never gave you my name, just the hope I'd return.

The glimpse of me you caught that day — just a colorful sliver of the messy tapestry of my mind...was it enough to truly pique your interest?

In your eyes, was I a stressed-out student, an anxious stutterer, or a friendly local? Maybe you thought I was a mess, a hot mess, or pleasantly put together?

Perhaps you saw a part of me that no one else had ever seen.

Either way, we may just be two galaxies that briefly swirled around each other, with no guarantee our orbits will ever alter so drastically as to let us stay side by side.

We'll start and end as strangers, I suppose.

"W-wait, please! Hang in there!"

"I can't! I'm slipping!"

No matter how tight she gripped his hand, it never stopped its descent downwards.

"I lov—"

His fingers slipped away.

"Mom!"

To breathe.

To run.

To breathe. And breathe. And keep breathing—in and out, in and out, letting the adrenaline shake every fiber of your being. To land every step in front of you without fail, and hope your pounding heart does not burst out of your chest, leaving you a bloody, helpless mess.

To keep looking forward, keeping your eyes wide open and your mind on high alert. To notice anything moving towards you and nimbly avoid collisions and stops. To adapt as the situation demands, knowing you are losing any remaining reservations by the second. To never look back, not unless it’s to check for unwanted followers.

To hold onto the hand of your dearest person, and subconsciously prepare yourself for the moment when all you have left will be the mere sensation of their hand. To tighten your grip at the very thought of loss, and pray you will not be plagued by another tragedy you cannot bear.

To leap, and duck, and climb, and sprint, and clench your jaw, and forget what you left behind.

That is what it means to escape.

To the creative mind, the world is both a terrible disappointment and the most wondrous work of art in existence.

Autumn leaves are fiery jewels, all sunsets are worthy of awe, and colored lights shining in midnight rain seem like stars calling to another world. Every tiny detail and every passing figure present opportunities to momentarily live through a different perspective. It is through these glimpses—offered in daily life, should one choose to notice them—that the world seems most beautiful.

And it is because of these lapses in one’s awareness of the present moment that a person can suddenly begin to imagine new things. Once a moment is taken to notice how vibrant the grass is after spring rain, or how delightful the cat sleeping by the windowsill is, the mind is given the permission to wander. So wander it shall.

The first stage of this thought-freedom is generally curious, internal remarks. Small phrases and snippets of paragraphs that comment on what the eyes see, and how something could or might be, and these remarks are not unusual among most people. Strangers might not take kindly to being spoken to about these remarks, but friends may very well appreciate them, taking comfort in this shared peculiarity of the mind.

The second stage brings longer, more complex internal comments. Six-word phrases are slowly replaced by much longer trains of thought, that continue on for perhaps a full minute or two. Sharing these little, personal creations may require a closer circle of friends, and maybe some attention to time and place. After all, these thoughts already are no longer simple comments on imagery, rather, they contain traces of the fantastical.

The third stage is reserved for a smaller portion of the human population. It is the stage when ideas begin to form so quickly that words appear at lightning speed, all at once, and paragraphs turn into pages and pages of thought. It is when entire concepts and stories spin out of the brain on long, delicate threads that take a while to cut. And once the cogs of the mind spin this quickly, and this intensely, acceptance of this state of existence is the only path for the individual affected by it. The machine may slow down, but to halt it completely would be to end the individual’s conscience. It is no longer a mere stream of thought, but rather a waterfall—powerful, continuous, and, at times, somewhat daunting.

To have concepts swimming in your mind like fish in an overcrowded bowl is tiring. They constantly beg to be let out, to be heard and seen. An outlet is needed, lest the bowl overflow and flood the rest of the brain permanently.

With these thoughts of creation, of wonder and ingenuity, come the heaviest weights of disappointment. Why must the snow get so dirty, why must injustices exist, and why are we all restricted in our movement? These thoughts tempt one to fly towards the sun, melt one’s resolve, and have one drop out of the air into the cold sea of despair. Once you imagine how the world could be, you cannot help but fault it for all that it is not.

The only cure for this restlessness is allowing some of these mind tapestries to be shown to the world, and given to the hands to make them from real thread. The tapestries need not even match perfectly; so long as the intent remains the same, the fish are satisfied.

But this is a long and arduous process, and so, discontent is a common feature of creative minds.

It's a strange existence, really.

To wake up in a bed that you briefly believe is your own, only to gather your bearings, wipe the sleep fog from your mind, and remember that you are in a small room that is not really yours. You have tried to add your personal touches, in hopes that it will soften the appearance of the painted concrete and make your unusual stay bearable, but nothing can truly hide or change the hard edges.

The morning light is beautiful but deadly; your room will soon become an oven if you don't close the blinds. Nothing in your proximity can really provide relief from the sun's heat, but you convince yourself that any little thing can help. Drink as much water from your bottle as you can, and splash the water feebly trickling out of the faucet with as much vigor as you can manage.

Logically, you know this paltry existence will not last forever. Life was not always like this, and it will not consume all your future days. But the mind grieves for things that used to be, for the safety of old habits and experiences. It asks for anything that will distract from the unpleasant moment, and though you may find relief for the next minute or hour, your heart will meanwhile retreat further into the depths of your chest. Your senses will become worn down, until even great events will not strike through the insulating layers of fog around your heart.

Even as you wait in line, silently dreading what cheap meal they will hand you in a box this time, you cannot help but wonder about the scars that have already formed, and which ones will cut even deeper into you as time passes. At this point, it is impossible to make it through this period unscathed. But what would you have been like if fate had not molded such a drastic path? Where would you be right now, in a different world?

Perhaps it truly is pointless to dream about the what-ifs. These different scenarios are just weights for the heart and poison for the mind. The universe has backed you into this corner, and now you must push through it.

As long as you don't catch a fever, you will survive.

Somehow.

“We would all be happier if you were gone.”

I realize before the words even finish spilling out of my open mouth that what I have said is terrible.

Unforgiveable, even.

The sudden silence in the room tells me that much, and I feel the sparks in our veins threaten to light up all at once.

But you must understand, the intent behind the words...I didn’t mean them that way.

If you were not in the room right now, we wouldn’t be having this argument. If you didn’t live in this house, you wouldn’t wake him (or me, for that matter) with your awful, thundering yells echoing through the walls. If you walked out that door and ceased to exist in our memories...I bet our lives would be all the more peaceful.

You must understand--I don’t wish for your death, or your demise. I don’t wish to see you suffer, or weep. I don’t desire retribution.

If only you could simply be plucked out of our lives, and placed on a little, dirt path that always wound out of reach, never intersecting our own. If only there was a way to melt the glue that held us together without burning us both.

When I say “gone,” I really mean just...not here.

I've been told it's polite to start communications with a greeting, so I bid you all a "hello."

I'm sure everyone has many, many things occupying their mind right now, and maybe it is a little unfair to burden you all with another "issue," so to speak, but I believe that what I have to say is worth listening to, and worth knowing.

Ahem.

Butterflies do not cause hurricanes, but boomerangs will come back to hit you in the head.

If you give a mouse a cookie, she will thank you and happily be on her way.

And, last but not least: the tree made a terrible, earth-shaking groan when it collapsed onto the ground, but whether that's any business of yours is up to you.

Good day.