It begins in the moment you accept it as fact. That it has already happened and it cannot be undone. It begins when the words were spoken and are carried off to listening ears wherever the wind may find them. It begins in the pictures you take and develop or share for everyone to see whenever they deem to see them. In the time you tell happenings as stories and teach happenings to your young. In the moments you're gathered together with those you love and reminisce on events long passed. It starts in the moments you look back at your life, play scenes in your head like a movie or a slideshow, and remember how you were or what you did fondly or vow to never do the same thing twice. When the wheels of change are happening all around you, when advancements are made, when the styles morph into something new, when norms and customs are refined or refashioned, when new voices rise up, when new songs are sung, when new books spark greater and broader imagination, and the things you once knew are made better or erased from civil conversation altogether. When the sun set yesterday and rose today. When you woke up one morning and saw how much of life you have lived. Or looked around you and saw how much of life others nearby have lived. It starts with attending funerals and worrying about your own. It starts with saying goodbye to those who came before you, or those who walked alongside you and left you too soon, and understanding that they will never return to you now, but you may see them someday soon. It starts with letting go of what was and accepting what is, despite the grief and the pain and the hardship that may accompany it. But it also starts when someone new comes along, when someone is born, or when someone knocks on your door or taps you on the shoulder or just stops by to say hello. It ends, thusly, in the moments before they made your acquaintance, in the steps they took to come to you or vice versa. The past ends with a lesson, while the present begins with wisdom. It ends with memories and will begin with the moment new ones take shape. It ends when what happened is recorded for the history books and will begin with new happenings being cataloged for the next edition. It ends when you least expect it and begins when you're not looking. It begins with the inhale and ends with the exhale. The past ends in the moment you take stock of where you are standing, while the present begins with the first step forward. It ends yesterday and begins today.

I am going to adamantly recommend the Renegades series by Marissa Meyer. There are three books in the series: Renegades, Archenemies, and Supernova. It has become my favorite book series, which I read in its entirety within a couple of weeks and then immediately started reading again. The story is basically about superheroes- or Prodigies,

as they're called in the book, though they're technically humans with extraordinary abilities (almost like the X-Men)- that are trying to rebuild society and establish peace and order after a long period of Anarchy and chaos. They're called the Renegades. At the same time, the people who ruled in that period of Anarchy- the Anarchists (haha)- are trying to topple the Renegades and bring about the freedom of Prodigies everywhere through their ideals of Anarchy, that being the right to live their lives the way they see fit, without a hypocritical government dictating how they live their lives. They want peace and freedom for Prodigies everywhere, devoid of the fear and persecution that had once dominated their lives. So, you've got Nova, one of the Anarchists, who infiltrates the Renegades to gather intelligence on them, trying to find a way to bring them down from within. She ends up joining a Patrol Unit, led by this guy named Adrian- they call him Sketch- who also has an alter-ego that no one knows about. These two basically go on a cat-and-mouse hunt for each other's alter-egos while simultaneously building their relationship with one another and growing closer, the whole time ignorant of the fact that they are looking to take down one another. Plus, they're both seeking their own forms of vengeance and seeking answers to questions that have been haunting them since they were kids, which ultimately ends up bridging their paths together even more. It's enthralling. There's compelling action, drama, and a believable romance- which I personally think is hard to find. The character development is top-notch, and the world-building is incredible. If it interests anyone else, there are also many characters that are people of color- including Adrian- and two of the most powerful characters that oversee the Renegades are a married gay couple- AND THEY ARE JUST SO PRECIOUS. It really reads like a comic book, as well, which I found all the more enticing and overall just fun to read. I will say this also: there are few book series that have an ending that is satisfying, that have that ending that brings everything full circle without contradicting itself or falling flat. This is one of those book series that manages to be so wide-reaching, with so many possibilities for how it can end, but never loses sight of where it needs to go to keep you turning the pages. It definitely has that sense of completion by the time you reach the end that you end up wanting to read it all again, with all the answers in place, so you can experience everything with a renewed appreciation of the story as a whole. Personally, I think this is one of those book series that is everything you wish other series' would be and more.

A hush washed through the courtroom as the solitary door beside the empty Jury Box opened to the crowd, replacing the murmurs and quick whispers with the rustle of clothing, the creaks and squeaks of the wooden benches as the gallery rose to their feet and muffled footfalls. The Judge was solemn as he stepped slowly onto the bench and took his seat. The Bailiff, standing against the wall behind the Judge, dragged his eyes around the room, shifting his weight from foot to foot and filling the silence with the subtle jangle of the keys attached to his utility belt. His hand was placed firmly on his service weapon. No one else dared to move.

The Judge raised his palm toward the congregation.

"You may be seated."

The benches groaned in protest as the people silently took their seats once more. Each of the twelve benches, spread from wall to aisle, was filled to capacity, with some of the spectator's bodies barely clinging to them while still rubbing elbows with their neighbors, making the space feel tight and confined, the air stifling in the windowless chamber. To them, however, there was little cause for complaint about these conditions. They were privileged enough to be witnesses to these historic proceedings.

Adjacent to the bench, the court reporter raised her hands to the stenograph, poised like a professional pianist, ready to dance her painted fingers along the keys. Across from her, the clerk, a weasel-looking man with dark, thinning hair, small reading glasses precariously balanced on his nose, and a thick walrus mustache, rose from his seat, sweat treading down his forehead, accentuating his diminished hairline. His eyes darted to the crowd, to the defendant, to the judge before settling on the papers in his unsteady hands.

"P-presenting the docket, 92-CR-00001-A," he stammered, "The State vs. Eugene Brisk."

The crowd shuffled in their seats. The clerk cleared his throat before continuing.

"Mr. Brisk has been charged with Negligence Towards Humanity by The State. He has entered a plea of Not Guilty. He is represented by Mr. Conrad Addison. The State Representatives are Mrs. Juli Marrow and Mr. Peter Williams. The case is presided by the Honorable Judge James P. Shepherd."

The clerk dropped quickly into his seat and let out a long breath.

Judge Shepherd- a tall, imposing man with thick salt-and-pepper hair and dark circles under his pale blue eyes- ran his hand down the front of his black robe, his emotionless stare trained on the defendant, who, in turn, stared resolutely back at him.

"Before we begin these proceedings," said the Judge, leaning forward in his chair, his baritone voice ricocheting off the walls, "I would like to address a few matters of importance. Firstly, Mr. Brisk. As the charges against you have been brought by The State and your case is the first of its kind, you have been denied access to a trial by a jury of your peers. The State feels that the extensive media coverage may affect a jury's ability to remain impartial, so they have chosen me as your judge and jury due to my extensive experience. If you are to be found guilty, I will also be your executioner. Do you understand this, Mr. Brisk?"

Mr. Brisk continued to stare at Judge Shepherd, his jaw set and his eyes unmoving. Beside him, Mr. Addison, a portly man with a tightly bound ponytail and a thick brown beard, shifted in his seat before placing his hand on Mr. Brisk's arm.

"Yes," said Mr. Brisk, jerking his cuffed arms away from his counsel.

"Very well. Secondly," continued the Judge, "the gallery is expressly forbidden from taking pictures or recordings of any kind. Anyone who is found to have done so will be charged with Contempt and will be sent to a Labor Camp. The gallery is also forbidden from outbursts of any kind, particularly in protest of these proceedings. Any violators will be sent to a Reeducation Camp. Am I understood?"

The congregation acknowledged in silence.

"Good. You may begin, Mrs. Marrow."

Juli Marrow, a petite young woman with dark green eyes and shoulder-length light blond hair, stood and approached the podium between the two counsel's tables, placed directly in front of the Judge's bench, buttoning her beige suit jacket as she went. Mr. Brisk fixed his attention to her. Several members of the gallery scooted to the edge of their seats.

"Your Honor," she began, "as you know, The State runs extensive testing on all its citizens from birth to adulthood- that being 25 years of age. Genetic testing, Intelligence testing, Physical testing, Disease testing, Social testing, and multiple Aptitude tests. In the nearly 60 years since The State began mandating these tests, there has not been a single individual who has failed to meet the standards set by The State, nor has there been an individual who could not reach those standards through State-sponsored intervention. Until now."

She turned her body, leaning her elbow on the podium as she looked back at the defendant. He furrowed his brow at her.

"We have amassed an extensive file on Mr. Brisk's failure to meet and abide by the standards of The State, the standards that dictate our place, function, and contribution to society. These standards supply the law and order of our State. They give us purpose when we had once blindly sought to create our own. They allow us to become the best members of society that we can be and create our individuality that is so valued in the status quo."

Mr. Brisk scoffed. Judge Shepherd fixed him with a stern glare. Mrs. Marrow didn't miss a beat as she continued.

"Mr. Brisk has a detailed history of protest against the standards. Time and again, he has failed to abide by them. Time and again, he has failed to maintain the standards and has even willingly failed to participate in them. We will present evidence to this court that proves Mr. Brisk to be a menace to our State and Negligent Toward Humanity with his vain attempts to go against the norms of our society. We will also present evidence of his attempts to taint our society with his dated rhetoric and corrupted genes. With that, The State is calling for Mr. Brisk's immediate Euthanization."

Murmurs started up in the gallery, with each member passing glances at each other in their awe. Judge Shepherd reached for his gavel as the audience silenced once more. Mr. Brisk tracked Mrs. Marrow as she returned to her seat, refusing to look back at him. Judge Shepherd turned his attention to the defendant's counsel.

"Mr. Addison, if you please."

Mr. Addison cleared his throat and ran his hand down his beard before standing and waddling up to the podium. Mr. Brisk sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"Your Honor, my client and I cannot deny the findings of the State mandated testing. Nor can we deny that my client has been outspoken against the standards of The State. However, I believe that my client has not been given the adequate support necessary to fully embrace the standards. His time in Reeducation has been limited and he has been denied Genetic Modification in the past. I will present evidence of this to the court. I believe that with renewed support, Mr. Brisk can accept the standards and become a functioning member of society. I believe that Mr. Brisk is innocent of the charges against him and that it would be beneficial to our society to set the example that anyone can be Reeducated. Thank you."

Mr. Addison turned to take his seat as Judge Shepherd spoke, stopping him in his tracks.

"I understand that you are new here, Mr. Addison," he began, "but your beliefs are not on trial. Do you have evidence to present to this court of Mr. Brisk's innocence? Do you have evidence to prove that your client would benefit from continued Reeducation?"

Mr. Brisk raised his eyebrow at his counsel. Mr. Addison shuffled his feet before flipping through his papers.

"Mr. Addison."

"Yes?"

Judge Shepherd just stared at him.

"Y-yes, Your Honor. I do have the evidence."

"Okay, then. You may be seated."

Mr. Addison returned to his seat quickly, his shoulders hung low, his eyes moving from his papers to his client. Mr. Brisk kept his eyes forward.

Judge Shepherd rubbed his temple as he leaned back in his chair.

"Mr. Williams, you may present."

Approaching the podium with a neat stack of papers, Mr. Williams- a rather muscular man with rich, ebony skin and a freshly maintained buzzcut- unbuttoned his navy blue coat and tugged at his black turtle neck. Several more members of the gallery moved to the edge of their seats.

Mr. Brisk ran a hand along the stubble on his jaw, fidgeted with his blond curls, and tapped his foot restlessly. He knew how this was going to play out.

Mr. Williams began his speech by outlining to the court how Mr. Brisk had always been a below-average student, who was frequently truant from his school, spending his time loitering at the local parks. He had very few friends, none of which he was close with, who all wrote letters to the court detailing their private conversations, during which Mr. Brisk made multiple mentions of his disdain towards the standards of The State, referring to the former system of Free-Will and the right to pursue his own happiness in his arguments with them. He then called to the Witness Stand a number of his former educators, all of whom described Mr. Brisk as resistant to the system, a melancholy child with no sense of focus or drive, and a terrible influence on his peers. They even mentioned his tendency to underperform during physical examinations, considering him to be borderline lazy.

Throughout all of this, Mr. Brisk sat reclined in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, his focus drawn to counting the links on his handcuffs.

His attention shifted up briefly to the podium as Mrs. Marrow joined her partner. She held a remote in her hand, which she used to turn on a projector that had been wheeled in while he wasn't paying attention. The machine clicked on and a collection of graphs appeared on the wall above the Jury Box. She began describing each of his genetic defects that had been collected by The State Health Associates. A dormant Autism gene, the Cancer gene, the addiction gene, the Depression gene, and so on. She coupled each one with an outline of his family history, which listed dozens of relatives that each exhibited the effects of the related genes. The presentation ended with a note that these genes would be passed on to his children, tainting the populace with his inherited afflictions, all of which, the tests showed, would manifest in them. Finally, Mr. Williams ended their testimony with a riveting speech on his lack of Aptitude in any career placement courses and his failure to gain any valuable skills or appreciation of the standards during his stints in Reeducation.

Judge Shepherd nodded subtly from behind the bench.

Mr. Addison then rose quickly from his chair, the papers in his hand askew. Mr. Brisk rolled his eyes at the bumbling man.

In comparison to his counterparts, Mr. Addison's argument was much shorter and devoid of any intricate detail. He described Mr. Brisk's IQ as being average, his lack of support from his parents, and the relatively short nature of the eight times he had spent in Reeducation. He did not refute the evidence presented by The State, nor could he produce any meaningful argument against Mr. Brisk's outspoken denouncements of the standards. Mr. Addison merely submitted one form, filed by his parents when Mr. Brisk turned 18, to undergo Genetic Modification to address his tainted genes. This request had been denied by the Health Associates on the grounds that it had not been submitted by Mr. Brisk himself.

The State representatives immediately attacked this last piece of evidence, citing that it displayed his refusal to conform to the standards.

Mr. Addison had no rebuttal for this.

The gallery had begun whispering to each other and exchanging exasperated looks. Some even shook their heads. Although a level of excitement and expectation began to weave its way through the enchanted audience. Mr. Brisk closed his eyes and hung his head.

"I've heard enough," said Judge Shepherd. "I am ready to make my verdict."

A deafening silence came over the room. The gallery held their breaths. The clerk wiped the sweat from his brow. The State representatives sat back in their chairs, their chins held high. Mr. Addison held his head in his hands.

Mr. Brisk lifted his head and sat tall in his chair, his hands folded on the table.

Judge Shepherd swept his gaze around the room before settling on the defendant.

"Mr. Brisk. It is the finding of this court that you are guilty of Negligence Towards Humanity. You are hereby sentenced to Euthanization."

The rabble could barely contain their cheers and grunts of approval at the verdict. The Judge quickly tapped his gavel on the table to silence them.

"I'm ruined," mumbled Mr. Addison. He said nothing to his client.

Judge Shepherd had begun signing forms and handing them to the clerk. When he finished, he looked back at the defendant.

"Mr. Brisk, do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?"

A smile had spread across the face of Eugene Brisk as he rose to his feet.

"I do," he said quietly.

He approached the podium.

"Today, I become a martyr," he began.

The crowd gasped collectively. Judge Shepherd narrowed his eyes at the man.

"There will come a day when society reclaims freedom and refuses to be treated like lab rats. There will come a day when the people rise up against this sham government and reclaim their right to pursue their own happiness, to choose how they live their own lives, to become true individuals again. I do not regret my decision to go against the standards because it was my choice to do so. Because I chose to live my life the way that I wanted to. Because I chose to embrace my flaws rather than have them removed from me. Because I chose to accept the things about myself that I cannot change, the things that go against the current status quo. My flaws are what make me who I am and no one can take those away from me. They may have been used to condemn me today, but I fully embrace all of those parts of me and I refuse to submit to anyone who cannot accept that flaws are inherently human. A word of advice to everyone here today: if the parts of you created in your mind have cause to manifest, do not fear the truth of them, do not change them, for they are you."

The crowd began talking loudly amongst themselves. Judge Shepherd aggressively beat his gavel on the bench.

"I will not be complacent in this," Mr. Brisk stated, raising his voice above the noise. "I will not abandon my right to choose the life that I live. I will not abandon what I believe to be true freedom and individuality. If that makes me a martyr, then I fully accept my role in all of this. It is not right for someone else to dictate every aspect of our lives. That is not living. That is oppression. There is no right in a system that is only capable of seeing what is wrong within it and snuffing it out. That is tyranny. I will not stand by and be submit myself to that. I will gladly face my death today if it means that I chose to live my life with no regrets and not allow the standards to tell me how I should live."

Rather than succumb to the urge to voice their opinions, the gallery remained silent, watching the scene playing out in front of them. Mr. Brisk held his head high as he faced the Judge, unblinking. Judge Shepherd's only reply was to wave his hand at the Bailiff, who removed Mr. Brisk from the courtroom with no protest.

The Judge- now turned Executioner- followed the men through the door next to the empty Jury Box, leaving the gallery in contemplative silence.

I was the proud owner of a lovely Viola for almost 11 years. It was mine from my first day of Orchestra in middle school, through my four years of high school, and continued to be mine until two years ago. It was my pride and joy. I eventually managed to save up enough money to add a beautiful Cello to my collection of musical instruments, as I had always wanted one. I only had it for a year, but I loved knowing it was mine. To this day, I have never treated inanimate objects with as much reverence as I treated those instruments. This is where my biggest lie comes in. This past Christmas, my parents asked me what I wanted and I mentioned that I would like another Cello. I told them that I left it and my Viola behind at my former job. That wasn't the truth. In the almost two years I was at my former job, I was swindled out of hundreds of dollars by a co-worker that I considered to be a good friend and as such was broke. I had to sell my instruments just to get by. But, of course, I wasn't about to tell my parents that.

Home smells like various autumn scents from burning wax melts and purple Fabuloso floor cleaner. It smells like a department store perfume catalog with a hint of men's cologne, but I always say it smells like an advertisement for black cherry merlot because it's my mom's favorite perfume and even when she's not home the scent lingers the longest out of all our perfume preferences. Home smells like my dad's chewing tobacco and spit-bottles because he insists on leaving them on the coffee table when he goes out of town for work and never throws them away. Home smells like soggy dog chew toys and damp fur mingling with the smells of broccoli and eggs whites and chicken that my sisters tend to cook daily. Home smells like an old library stocked with freshly printed books that just happens to be conjoined to a shoe store and a laundromat that always smells of fresh sneakers and Fabreeze tide-pods. Home smells of freshly lit candles, my sister's bakery apron, home-cooked meals, happy pets, and a family who can't tell if it's one sibling's atrocious smelling socks in the doorway or just too many vegetables boiling in the kitchen at once. More than anything, home just smells like comfort.

A good breakup is mutual and friendly. You aren't parting ways because of your differences, but because you've grown as much as you can with each other. You don't want to leave each other and will still be friends, but you understand that being in a relationship with each other isn't necessary anymore, as you still love each other, and know that separating is best for the both of you at the end of the day. By not being in a relationship, you can better support each other, guide each other, and help each other continue to grow as people, just in a different way. It's the kind of breakup that opens the door to a life-long friendship with someone who knows you better than anybody else. Where you both know you can live your lives the way you were meant to while still supporting each other through it all.

I had to think long and hard about this before I could come to a definitive answer. That is to say, I know why I write, but I had to come to an understanding of my complex relationship with writing before I could find the right words to express it.

My drive to write has changed over the years. It started out as a way to garner praise, attention, and guidance from the people who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. They saw my writing ability as a natural talent to be cultivated and I took it as an opportunity to develop a skill when I thought I didn't have any to speak of. There wasn't any rhyme or reason for me to write other than the sense of acceptance it provided me from others. But that was over ten years ago and life and experience have a way of changing your perspective.

With time, writing became a way for me to express the things I couldn't say aloud. It became my only companion when I didn't have any friends and no one else to talk to except the pages of my notebooks. For a while, that was why I wrote. I wanted to free the emotions trapped inside me that had nowhere else to go. It got me through hard times and helped me to overcome many of the things I had repressed throughout my life, but I found that it stifled my writing as a whole. In retrospect, many of the things I wrote back in the day were fairly terrible and, quite honestly, cringe-worthy, but at the time, it was damaging to my ego. I am a perfectionist writer- always have been, always will be. So, seeing that my writing lacked originality, the word choice was subpar, and that I had lost my voice in, what I call, a deafening strain of mediocrity, I felt that I didn't have as much talent as I had believed. I didn't have any direction. I didn't know what I was going to do with what I had written and I couldn't see why I should write. Top that off with being told that I couldn't make a career out of being a writer anyway, and my confidence was shot. As a result, I stopped writing for a number of years. Until about a year ago when I hit rock bottom. Debts were piling up, I had been swindled out of hundreds of dollars by someone I considered to be a good friend, my home life wasn't going so well, I was working multiple months in succession with only one day off each month, I was seriously ill, I lost all my friends, I had a very traumatic death in my family, and I didn't have any clue what I was doing with my life. I didn't have any joy. I didn't have any expectations for myself and I didn't have a reasonable way out of the hole I had dug for myself either. I spent so much time and effort- literal blood, sweat, and tears- in a career that had no intention of supporting my interests in climbing the bureaucratic ladder and building a career out of what I had come to love doing that I lost sight of myself. I stopped seeing the good in what I was doing- for reference, I am a therapist for children with Autism- and I lost my purpose. With the exception of the kids I have worked with, I spent so much time running myself ragged for other people that I didn't have anything left for myself when everything was said and done. I left my job, cut ties with so many people, and just generally tried to pick up the pieces and figure out what I was going to do with my life. I needed to find meaning in my life when I believed there was none. So, after a few months of consideration, healing, and wrestling with opposing interests, I decided that I would pick up writing again. Slowly, at first, to get into the habit of doing it and rebuilding skills that I had lost over time until I could feel confident that what I was writing was good. I also made sure that, this time, I knew what I was going to do with my writing. It may not have been easy, as I dealt with a severe mental block for the first few months of trying to get back into writing, but it's instilled in me a renewed purpose that I didn't expect.

Looking back, the reasons why I had written in the past were purely for my own self-satisfaction and I lacked the scope of experience to understand what it actually means to be a writer. The greatest stories ever told, the ones we remember, the ones we read over and over again, are great because they provide us with something we are missing from our lives. Whether that be insight, experience itself, words that express something we are feeling and can't express ourselves, entertainment, knowledge, or something to relate to. We identify those things for ourselves when we are reading that have the most impact on our lives and that's why we read, but as writers, those are the things that inspire our writing. At least, they are for me. That's why I write. I write to share the lessons I have learned from life, good or bad, in the hopes that I can make someone else's life better. I write to inspire others, to show the good and the bad of life so that others understand, to share my experiences that someone, somewhere can relate to, to provide some insight into things that aren't talked about enough but should be addressed, and to maybe even make someone else not feel like I have in life: alone. I write because I want to add something good to a world that seems to have so much wrong with it. It's enough for me to write because it could change someone's life. Even if the only thing a reader takes away from my writing is a general sense of entertainment, then that is enough for me, too. Life isn't easy or fair, and it certainly hasn't done me any favors, but at the very least, I can become the person that I want to be by writing. If done right, I can have the success I crave while also helping someone else, even if it's at a respectable distance and at my own pace and leisure, rather than trying to do too much and running myself ragged again.

In all honesty, it kind of sounds like I have a big head about my writing and that I think I'm a great writer, but I'm not and I still have a long way to go in accomplishing even a fraction of the reasons why I drive myself to write. I want to be a writer who does all of those things while still remembering where I came from and understanding that as much as I may want it to be, my writing will never be perfect. But that's also why I write. Because I can continue to learn and grow while striving to do good for others. Those are the things that have come to bring joy to my life after being unhappy for so long and by being a writer I can find my happiness in that and the stories I tell while providing the same to others.

When I am reincarnated, I hope I will be a bear. One who is fierce, powerful, sure. Or perhaps an owl. One who is intelligent, mysterious, patient. Or maybe even a gorilla. One who is compassionate, proud, strong. I hope to be reincarnated as something free from the cruelty of the world but not disconnected from its beauty. In truth, when I am reincarnated, I hope to be all of the things I am not, while still being everything that I am. I want to live this life with good intentions that I may someday come across in my next life. A life that leaves something behind of who I was that can inspire who I become, even if I never realize it was me. In my next life, I hope to learn of the things I have done in this life in the hope that the cycle of the wrong I have done is discontinued and the good is built upon. I will learn more, see more, never repeat my mistakes, be jovial, build by mental and physical strength, and live my life as quietly as I do in this life. But that doesn't answer the question of what I will be reincarnated as, does it? Those are just my hopes. Being reincarnated as an animal is a perk of existence, but lacks the challenge that my soul craves. It is a primal existance rather than one of conscious direction. Although I may eat my own words and actually be reincarnated as an animal, I know more than anything that if I have a legacy to continue, if my soul knows it can do more and will thrive, I will be reincarnated as the one thing no one hopes for: A person.