03/11/23 (11:03-11:29pm)

What’s up Doc,

Listen, this is an odd one. I know both of us seem to struggle with a lot of the same things for different reasons. I thought this might be a good skill since I shut down when talking about emotions. If I can write them, then we can skip that part. So I thought I’d start this series and see what happens. Maybe it’ll work, maybe not, but either way maybe it’ll help one of us. I’ll give you some of my old writings, if that’ll help; this will definitely be the most casual I’ve ever written. I think you’d like my Science & Scripture piece a lot. Remind me to text it to you. Maybe this will help me fall asleep. All I know is my heart hurts and it’s not even a full panic attack.

I think a lot of it is because I get too understimulated before I fall asleep or my body is scared to fall asleep for a number of reasons (primitive, spiritual, introspective). There’s a list of reasons for all three of these; maybe the primitive is the easiest to tackle for now since the adrenaline is wearing off.  I was born premature, 24 week, pound and a half baby. They had to do caffeine, blood, and ventilators to the point there’s scarring on my lungs that triggers my bronchial asthma. I was in the hospital for 101 days and came home on a breathing machine because I would forget to breathe. This was seen in small ways throughout my life. I would forget to breathe during dance performances; I don’t breathe going up stairs. It makes me wonder if my body is just concentrating on breathing to the point it doesn’t want to sleep.

But that doesn’t account for a number of things. It’s deductive in the sense that I’ve always disliked. It doesn’t account for the productivity addiction, or the compulsions, or that voice in my head that knows if I could see myself from the outside I would hate myself. It doesn’t account for my accomplishments not being mine, getting lucky in what I do by being at the right place at the right time. Hell, I’m not supposed to be alive in the first place if it weren’t for the time I was born with modern medicine. And then there’s the guilt. How can someone feel so guilty for simply existing? I don’t want to be dead by any means but why…

I know my purpose. I know my potential and I can’t stand that I can’t live up to it. Other people know their purpose and go and do it. I’ve lost my sense of identity once trying to do everything I could; it didn’t work. Those weren’t limits, those were restraints. And if I could get around them, maybe I’d finally reach my potential. I’m stubborn. The only reason I lived is because I’m stubborn. The only reason I am still alive is because I’m stubborn. I’m alive so what do I do now? Maybe hating myself gives me more motivation in a way, to become someone or something I don’t hate. Someone I can look at in a mirror and not have to worry about. I forgot I have a piece on that too. Here:

“Another night of staring at my own reflection. Why do I always come here? What even am I anymore? This mortal shell of mine seems to trap me. These dark bags only emphasize my melancholy eye contact. I try to reach out to myself but only feel the distant chill of this wretched surface; if only I could destroy its mocking gleam that judges me so. My efforts would be futile. When I walk out of this bathroom I could avoid my reflection, but I must face my own existence. These abhorrent conceptualizations must occur from within my own psyche, yet what does it mean to truly be mortal? This cursed mirror offers no clarification. I will nevertheless contemplate on my pitiful state: how can it be true I am no more than a spec much like the abomination of condensed sand I stare into? My heavy sigh only fogs the mirror and my thoughts further. Perhaps reflecting on memories rather than my empty husk will heal these reckless emotions.

As my conscience molds to my comprehension of this world, I am introspecting to discover who I truly am unto this earth while that same conscience no longer dictates my preconceptions miniscule. Among man I am just another cog within their own creations yet what I truly am can be defined by my beliefs. Improvement is what means to be human, and steadfast will I travel among the planes of reflectivity to reconstruct my identity. Though I may be perceived as this outwardly form, I am distinct by design. The miry fog releases its toll on my thoughts as I snap back into my own reality. I no longer feel numb to the stool I am perched on and gaze into the eyes of one I knew long before my melancholy state. I have never forgotten yet how can I begin to rebuild what I have lost?  Lightheaded, I rise from my perch. The fire within rekindles as I turn the worn door handle and step into the land of opportunity before me.”

I’m not afraid of death, never have been. I’m not afraid of life, or nothingness, or myself. I’m afraid of living my life as if it was never mine to live, of wasting it as if I’ve never lived at all. I need something to keep me grounded and believe in who I am. I’ve tried everything I know how and I still feel numb.

I think that joker was from years ago, before I was diagnosed with anything. Have a field day with that one. This might be my solution to express my frustrations for a bit until I can cast them down. Hope you are doing well, man. I’m working on doing better; I promised myself I would and this is so much progress in such a short time. Thanks for always listening.

~TBA

The land that I lived upon was a holy land; Rome was the city of powerful Senators who ruled their people with great dignity.  Only a few weeks ago, Julius Caesar fell lifeless to the capitol building floor at the hand of his best friend, Decius Brutus.  All entities know of this dastardly crime, but our country could not be more segregated. Some believed that the death of Caesar was unnecessary; however, I had acknowledged that Brutus would do anything to improve the life of all citizens of Rome, for the greater good of Rome consumed all of his waking days.  Us followers of Brutus were severely outnumbered by those who had been brainwashed by the dastardly Marc Antony, who believed that Caesar was not ambitious in his motives and successfully manipulated the majority of citizens against us.  Today would hopefully prove to be the end of the controversy.  The divided citizens of Rome stood scattered among the field upon the outskirts of the capitol building as the pyre is set ablaze. Whilst staring into the oxidation of dalbergia melanoxylon wood into the air as our leader burns upon the stake in an extreme act of martyrdom, just as he murdered his best friend for the benefit of all of us on that blessed day during the Ides of March, I realize that not all heroes lay out their destiny with perfect actions.  Brutus was a man who had murdered a seemingly perfect hero, but he disposed of him for he could see that deep within the all-powerful Julius Caesar was the heart of a tyrant.  No one could have halted this utter destruction of mayhem throughout the land.  If Caesar were alive, the great Brutus would not have to fall, but the citizens would live under the tyrannical reign of their own decorated war hero. After the joyous day of Caesar’s termination from our society, Brutus promised that if his death would settle the divided nation, then death he shall receive.  He could have traditionally fallen onto his sword, but he wanted to make sure that all knew of his death, so that we may be at peace and restore our divided nation. As I raise my head to see the glorious man, the spark turned into a raging flame.  Now, his body began to burn. There was no expression in eyes, rather they were calm and calculated as all of his strategic notions were. There was no outcry of pain, for his lips seemed to be sewn shut.  I could stop this terror, but I choose not to; even as the screams of petrified citizens fill the brutally frigid air around us, I remain frozen within my position.  I tear my vision away from the man who our principles are founded on, and a single white flower that begins to burn within the flames comes within my focus. I would be jubilant in the ignorance to how the demise and destruction of my world will be once Antony’s minions take over, but analytical conceptualization is the greatest strength of my organism.  I shall be the one to lead now that the esteemed Brutus is nothing more than ashes. 

I was always fond of Decius Brutus, for he was diverse from the rest of my peers.  Even as a schoolboy he had a nature that no one could explain.  He had an unexplainable atmosphere to him when he stated how he wanted to one day save Rome and maybe one day become a martyr.  I must not reminisce in these once present memories any longer, for I feel nothing towards them. Forevermore I shall be hardened to all aspects that symbolize our fallen leader.  As my daydreams drift away as the waterlilies so often did in the lake by my abode, I cannot be a stone-cold soldier to the world nor can the others.  I watch while Cassius and Decius fall to their knees in grief whilst Portia merely watches as the sun sinks over the deadened horizon.  There is no hope in these souls.  I, for one, can not look away from the ashes that once constructed the body known as Brutus.  I cannot seem to fathom that he is deceased, for I feel the presence of those icy blue eyes. And yet a single tear trickles from my piercing grey eyes. The atmosphere is stained with his remembrance. The fire blazes for hours and even into the dead of night, and within the depths of the darkness and the silence around me, I realize that I am unaccompanied by the masses.  Within the orange and black strokes of light illuminating my being, the rods within the lining of my retina detect the purest of colors.  How can an object be so pure in the midst of a tragedy?  The once luscious greenery around the beauteous flower is charred from the blaze, but the blossom is disgracefully intact.  Although the survival of this inflorescence is shocking, my mind becomes angered at the fact that while a bud survived, the imperative organism could not.  The once rapid oxidation calls me to its dying embers.  They glow of the sun with an unmistakable amount of uncontrollable power.  I select a narrow stick that would make for an efficient torch if not used for an instrument of violence.  The flower should be dead as well!  I shall right this wrong within the universe. Brutus thought he was balancing out his actions when in reality he was worth so much more than Caesar.  He was a true leader, someone who could lead with the logic of a thousand or more men.  Who now will lead our moral compass?  How are we so outnumbered when Antony only provokes violence and is unable to utilize logic long enough to prove his own argument?  I cannot take it!  A plethora of the exquisitely soft petals fall to the charred ground as I wrench the stem from its roots.  I bring forth the stem to the crackling fire.  The emotions that run throughout my body should be shamed.  Never has death of such an unworthy opponent felt so justified.  The innocence, along with my hope for humanity, incinerates as each petal is taken by the rapid oxidation.

I walk along these streets of cobblestone that were built when both Caesar and Brutus still walked among us.  An extreme cloud of sadness hangs over my head and develops thoughts of my own worthlessness. Who am I to wander throughout these streets?  I must return to the bustling center of the city, for maybe I could find rest at my humble abode to ease this depressed state.  As I return, my mind wanders to all that is lost.  After the announcement of Brutus’ untimely demise, Antony proceeded to return his manipulative ways to once again organize the system of brainwashed beings to destroy us one by one.  We hear threats in the streets from his followers that we shall be killed if we continue our loyalty to Brutus’ mindset.  I am ready for that day to come; we all our ready for our death.  Without Brutus we are lost in a state of grief and resentment.  Every single one of us would have taken his place last night.  If I could trade his life for mine I would in a heartbeat.  I am brought back into my tormented reality by the sound of yelling coming from around the capitol.  I begin to run towards the commotion.  There is no use for this type of disturbance this late, due to the simple fact that there is nothing in this area except for the capitol and abandoned houses. Ever since Brutus’ death, no Antony supporter dared to enter the cluster of houses that surrounded the capitol.  I was the only one who lived in this perimeter, in order to escape the masses and to protect the former house of Brutus.  All of my acquaintances under Brutus vowed to live in obscurity until we could devise a plan.  Who would be here at such a time?  Antony and his loyalists have no usage out of my abode unless…

These heartless hinds! Such pyromaniacs that dare to destroy the last materialistic remembrance of Brutus all because they cannot comprehend the hamartia of Caesar.  I let my emotions overtake me.  My heartbeat quickens and I cannot breathe; my vision blurs and refocuses, only to blur once more.  From the shadows rises the venomous offender himself, Marcus Antony.  The halo of fire only illuminates the menacing smirk.  The dagger he clutches as his footsteps come closer and closer, ever so closer, gleams within the orange blaze.  Antony’s head slowly tilts to the left, his eyes demonic and dull.  He has turned into the picture of power that he never wished to acquire.  I am paralyzed with utter fear and helplessness and, for the final time, look into his eyes.  I feel myself slipping into the abyss and hear my final words slip from my conscience.

“Et tu, Antony?”

Throughout generations there has been love and a beautiful romance

Until two are separated tragically, never thought to reunite

Their relationship, no longer seeming bright

Leaving both in a melancholy trance

In the city of love, no matter where he went

The presence of passion never ceased to exist

Rather, grabbed his heart by its invisible fist

As the chair to his right was empty, the person absent, leaving without any note of consent

How this man longed for this maiden

Unconditional love was only a distant memory in the brain

The only feeling that grew was emotional pain

Although the intensity of this passion is not unshaken

Whilst their passion grew like the red hot intensity of one thousand suns

He knew that one could destroy their love

Enter the emotions of a mourning dove

Never mind the emotions, for they shall attempt to speak in the tongues

Many millenniums appeared to pass

Young mortal’s love untouched by the cold hand of fate

Seemingly forever in this physiological state

Except, unbeknownst by the pair, their love would silently, symbolically shatter, such like broken glass

Love, she is a cruel mistress

For their secrecy would be unlocked with the key of intelligence and wit

In the mourning of the dove they still could not admit

She solemnly surrendered that her wonderous world was becoming unrealistic

Never leaving the couple like a loyal companion

One who would never be seen

Though it would not protect them from horrid creatures for long, as would a vaccine

When they are fully discovered the pair will fall further into facts of existence that form a canyon  

In restless dreams the two shall find

The consequences of their behavior

Handled they shall be by the Savior

Yearning for secrecy and each other has made them blind

Oaths that bind two in matrimony was a secluded affair

Under this she did not want to live

In realizing this he convinced her that only an orchestra composed of one would not thrive

They now felt to each other as money to a millionaire

In fertility such as the fruitful cherry tree

Son was constructed from a ball of fire

No must know her heart’s deepest desire

Ostracized from her loved ones and reality

When the jewel was discovered, he was possibly sent away

Humans know nothing of his whereabouts, except for only the name

Earth and in the Heavens would know this boy as Astralabe, as he became

Really never knowing if he should listen to the hearsay

Evermore will these two hearts beat in unison, for they know of the emotions that lie within

The years pass by, and the presence has found

He shall soon begin to fade into the darkness that creeps around

And will soon pay for his immoral sin

One tragic day in April with perfect blue skies

The world around him seemed bright

Until a dark figure closes in, dark as night

The screams are then heard, until they are silenced and the half of her dies

The only remembrance, but cryptic message

That no one has understood ’till this day

The memory of these star-crossed lovers begins to fade away

And their tale of lore remains in the wreckage

Love is a tryst between the high and the low

The white purity of reason against the red heart of ardor and emotions

But you cannot live in a world full of only romantic notions

For you would only become a river that would not flown

WHEN MY HEART IS NOT WITH YOU IT IS NOWHERE

It was a humid summer day in London, England, but Timothy would not have it any other way.  His determination was strong and he was focused on the main objective, going to the pond on this special day of 1978 to meet his friend.  Timothy often found himself lonely and was yearning for attention from his mother who would always have something better to do. Where he and his mother lived there were no boys his own age for neighborhoods around except for Patrick.  Patrick was the best, and only, friend that the young boy had ever come across, so they decided to try to meet every Thursday at the banks of the pond. It was strange how the two met, Timothy remembered. He found Patrick all by his lonesome at the pond.  All his soon-to-be friend was doing was sitting and doing nothing except looking out towards the splendid Richmond Plane Tree where birds like the Red-Crested Pochard inhabited. Timothy started talking to Patrick and after the two made acquaintances, their friendship has never ended.  Timothy’s plan was quite simple. All that was required was that he had to ask to go, and if that failed drastic measures like pouting could be applied. Although he could just sneak off, the juvenile boy could not stand the shame if his mother knew that he had left to a strange place without telling her.  The pond was not strange to Timothy, but his ever-worried mother would shun him for leaving.

“Mom has to let me go!  Patrick will believe that I do not want to spend time with him,” he thought as he walked to the prosperous garden where his mom would spend hours tending to her ever so plentiful rose bushes.

So as the boy walked up to his caramel-haired mother, he noticed the twinge of anger on her long shaped face even before he asked the question that he did every Thursday.  As he opened his mouth slightly to speak, the woman unleashed a hurricane of anger that struck Timothy harder than punishment if he would have just went by his lonesome without permission.  The harsh words made Timothy’s thin frame and pale hands shake violently.

“Go, just go to the banks of the pond where you found something to play with.  But I will tell you this, you will not be allowed to visit your Patrick if your imagination can not comprehend what he truly is,” the young woman stated harshly as her six year old son’s bright blue eyes welled with tears.

Timothy wanted to explain that he did not understand what the difference was between him and his friend.  Patrick should not be shunned just because he was unable to talk, and his friend was a someone, not at all a something!  Every word of his thoughts the boy wanted to say to his mom, but he could not bear to hear any more outbursts of rage as he did moments ago.  His synapses were firing inquisitively on the matter, but he had to redirect his attention to going to see his best friend. Patrick would leave disappointed if he could not get to the pond’s bank quickly.  Timothy began to sprint down the block with his long, blond bangs blowing into the slight breeze that gently whisked the tree leaves to and fro. The feeling of the wind in his face had always made him feel empowered, so he decided to increase his speed.  The acceleration lasted until his legs began to shake underneath him and his breathing was heavier than it had ever been. He walked until he could see the pond with Patrick sitting beside the water alone as always. Patrick was still as a stone, and he was always in the same exact spot that Timothy left him last week.  Maybe it was because his only friend was a stone, but the boy’s active imagination could not see that the plain, grey pebble was not an actual living creature. Even when the boy’s mother would not allow him to come for almost a month, Timothy still could instantaneously perceive the stone from the rest even though it had no special markings or having an obscure color.  This was because Patrick was the only one known to Timothy as a friend, the rest were just boring stones to him that he would skip across the pond. Since it was the 14th of July, Patrick’s birthday, it was the stones turn to pick the activity for the time while they were both there. On any other day the boy would climb a tree while the stone, in the boy’s mind, would try to find him without opening his eyes.  The peculiar point of this game to the boy was that his best friend would always let him win.

“Patrick,” he told the inanimate object, “I think I know which game you would like, after all you pick it every year.  I should know because the only other time I come beside every Thursday is on your birthday!”

The stone agreed in his silent way and since the activity was agreed on, the boy picked up one of Patrick’s kind and threw it as hard as he could into the clear blue water.  After many cheers from Timothy and silent kudos from Patrick for beating his record of six skips, he skipped another. On the third stone he began trying to beat his new record of eight skips.  He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back.  This was very much startling.  The boy then noticed a small figure across the pond that had undoubtedly skipped a stone back.  Being the curious boy that he is, with Patrick in his hand, Timothy walks around the bank to see a girl about his age with caramel locks of shoulder-length hair framing her oval face.  Timothy slowly approaches her to see who she is, but something stops him from saying hello. He remembers the advice given to him by his mom and starts to worry. She always told him to never talk to adults he did not know, but this was not an adult, rather a girl more than likely younger than him with the softest looking brown eyes he had ever seen.  With is courage and confidence growing, he finally musters up a hello, and the girl starts talking with rapid speed and energy.

“Hello to you!  I am Melyssa Grace Hiller, but I prefer Grace!  I am five years old, and you seem older than me.  Who are you? I need your help to figuring out the strange script on this bottle.  I can not seem to read it, but that might be because I can not read yet!”

The boy only knows to reply to all of this with quick answers so he will have time to talk before she starts rambling on again, so he replies,”I am Timothy Andrews Peterson, but since we are going with nicknames I suppose you can call me Tim.  I am six years old, and before you ask again, I can read. Where did you find that bottle anyway?”

Grace then tells that she came to the pond to watch the birds, and that the green glass bottle was just floating there in the water.  She did not know how to open it, so she hit the fragile object against a rock to break it open. After this long conversation that involved more rambling about the color of the bottle (jade green or olive green), Timothy took the note from her and read it to himself before reading it aloud.  The note said:

“To whom it may concern, I am sending this letter on account that I am trying to find my long lost daughter, whose name is Melyssa Grace.  She has caucasian skin, brown eyes, caramel hair, and a very thin body structure. She looks very much like me except for her oval shaped face.  If you know her or see a girl of this description, please come and bring her back. I miss her very much, and will offer a reward to whoever finds her.

Thank you, Charlotte”

Timothy was confused beyond himself, and wondered why anyone would put a note this important in a bottle.  Maybe they had no other choice, and this was the only chance they had of finding this girl. He looked over at Grace, who’s eyes were filled with joy and confusion at the same time.

“Do you think that is her?  I knew I was adopted by the Miller’s, but I never thought that I would find my real mom! I wonder if she looks like me, and where she is.  Come on Tim, we are going on an adventure,” the girl with the white, poofy dress with the satin red ribbon, said excitedly and loudly proclaimed to the boy who replied that first they would have to go to his house first for lunch before going somewhere.

So the two children raced back to Timothy’s house which Grace thought looked like a castle with the many windows and victorian look.  In the kitchen that had the most modern appliances made, lunch was being made by his mom, who was shocked to see that Timothy had made a real friend. After telling his brown eyed mother about the message in the bottle, she told them that they would have to find someone that might know where Grace’s mother is.  After lunch, which with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with carrot sticks and homemade ranch, the two went to the place that they knew best.

The general store was old compared to the newer one in the town, but there were always more people here because of the lower prices.  A woman carrying a child around the age of seven months old with her large blue, floppy hat said that she was familiar with the name of Charlotte, and told the two with her strong British accent that she believed that the woman worked at a floral shop right down the block after turning left at the nearest stop sign.  After thanking the woman with the big hazel eyes and the floppy hat, Grace practically dragged Timothy to the floral shop. Once inside, the smell of lilies and carnations filled the shop with a pleasant aroma so strong and sweet it could remind anyone of being out in a field full of the most beautiful flowers imaginable.  Timothy looked around the shop, whose walls were used for even more flowers in vases on the shelves along with the paintings on the walls of bright, golden sunflowers. Grace, on the other hand, was already at the front desk, asking for the woman that was her mother. He barely heard the owner in the “I LOVE ROSES” apron that Charlotte had not been working there since ten years ago.  Grace bolted out the door with Timothy following, and the chirping birds outside could not help her from crying.

“I will never be able to find her.  I might as well tear up this letter and never dream that I will ever find my real mom,” Grace said between the emotional outbursts.

As Timothy tried to comfort her, he realized that Patrick was still in his possession.  He gently placed his friend into her hand, realizing that Patrick was just a stone, and Grace was a true friend that he needed to help.  The boy helped the disappointed young girl to her feet, and lead her back to his house where the two sat in the kitchen looking at the letter that Timothy made her promise not to destroy.

“What is this,”said a voice startled the two as it said, “and who signed the paper at the bottom?”

Timothy realized that it was his own mother who had spoken, and while Timothy was going to tell his mom that it was just a letter, his companion told her everything that had happened and who the lady was.  After Grace’s long story, the mother just stared off into space. Then, after a brief period of time and akward silence had passed, the mom thought to be of an only child confessed a true story as well. She had a second baby a year after her first that was adopted because she could not afford any more children.  

Now it was the boy’s mother who began talking quickly, unlike she was moments before, as Grace had when Timothy first met her, “I wonder daily who adopted my only baby girl, and regret every time that Timothy goes to meet his friend that I could not have kept her so he could have someone to play with besides that stone of his.  Which it seems to me like it belongs to you know, Grace. What was the woman’s name, sweetie? You forgot to mention that.”

Grace handed the note to the woman, and she started crying herself, although she seemed to be joyful.  Timothy never knew what his mother’s name was, and never had asked before. This seemed like the perfect moment.

So the young boy asked his mother for the first time in his life, “Mom, what is your name?”

The woman only replied with, “I am the woman with two children.  Timothy, you have a little sister because I am Grace’s mother.”

After many long hours discussing the situation with  the Millers in person, and Grace’s non stop begging to stay with her real mom, the couple agreed that their adopted daughter could stay with Charlotte and Timothy.  This was only on the condition that they could visit every Wednesday from 5:00 to 9:00 until the girl became settled into her new home. Now that Timothy had a real friend he could part with the stone that had made him so happy.  The two children rejoiced in knowing that they were siblings, and Charlotte was the happiest of all knowing that she had her daughter back. No longer would either of the two children have to question where they belonged. The glass bottle’s secret had brought a family together for the first time.

The land that I lived upon was a holy land; Rome was the city of powerful Senators who ruled their people with great dignity. Only a few weeks ago, Julius Caesar fell lifeless to the capitol building floor at the hand of his best friend, Decius Brutus. All entities know of this dastardly crime, but our country could not be more segregated. Some believed that the death of Caesar was unnecessary; however, I had acknowledged that Brutus would do anything to improve the life of all citizens of Rome, for the greater good of Rome consumed all of his waking days. Us followers of Brutus were severely outnumbered by those who had been brainwashed by the dastardly Marc Antony, who believed that Caesar was not ambitious in his motives and successfully manipulated the majority of citizens against us. Today would hopefully prove to be the end of the controversy. ​The divided citizens of Rome stood scattered among the field upon the outskirts of the capitol building as the pyre is set ablaze. Whilst staring into the oxidation of dalbergia melanoxylon wood into the air as our leader burns upon the stake in an extreme act of martyrdom, just as he murdered his best friend for the benefit of all of us on that blessed day during the Ides of March, I realize that not all heroes lay out their destiny with perfect actions. Brutus was a man who had murdered a seemingly perfect hero, but he disposed of him for he could see that deep within the all-powerful Julius Caesar was the heart of a tyrant. ​No one could have halted this utter destruction of mayhem throughout the land. If Caesar were alive, the great Brutus would not have to fall, but the citizens would live under the tyrannical reign of their own decorated war hero. After the joyous day of Caesar’s termination from our society, Brutus promised that if his death would settle the divided nation, then death he shall receive. He could have traditionally fallen onto his sword, but he wanted to make sure that all knew of his death, so that we may be at peace and restore our divided nation. As I raise my head to see the glorious man, the spark turned into a raging flame. Now, his body began to burn. ​There was no expression in eyes, rather they were calm and calculated as all of his strategic notions were. There was no outcry of pain, for his lips seemed to be sewn shut. I could stop this terror, but I choose not to; even as the screams of petrified citizens fill the brutally frigid air around us, I remain frozen within my position. I tear my vision away from the man who our principles are founded on, and a single white flower that begins to burn within the flames comes within my focus. I would be jubilant in the ignorance to how the demise and destruction of my world will be once Antony’s minions take over, but analytical conceptualization is the greatest strength of my organism. I shall be the one to lead now that the esteemed Brutus is nothing more than ashes.

I was always fond of Decius Brutus, for he was diverse from the rest of my peers. Even as a schoolboy he had a nature that no one could explain. He had an unexplainable atmosphere to him when he stated how he wanted to one day save Rome and maybe one day become a martyr. I must not reminisce in these once present memories any longer, for I feel nothing towards them. Forevermore I shall be hardened to all aspects that symbolize our fallen leader. As my daydreams drift away as the waterlilies so often did in the lake by my abode, I cannot be a stone-cold soldier to the world nor can the others. I watch while Cassius and Decius fall to their knees in grief whilst Portia merely watches as the sun sinks over the deadened horizon. There is no hope in these souls. I, for one, can not look away from the ashes that once constructed the body known as Brutus. I cannot seem to fathom that he is deceased, for I feel the presence of those icy blue eyes. And yet a single tear trickles from my piercing grey eyes. The atmosphere is stained with his remembrance. The fire blazes for hours and even into the dead of night, and within the depths of the darkness and the silence around me, I realize that I am unaccompanied by the masses. Within the orange and black strokes of light illuminating my being, the rods within the lining of my retina detect the purest of colors. How can an object be so pure in the midst of a tragedy? The once luscious greenery around the beauteous flower is charred from the blaze, but the blossom is disgracefully intact. Although the survival of this inflorescence is shocking, my mind becomes angered at the fact that while a bud survived, the imperative organism could not. The once rapid oxidation calls me to its dying embers. They glow of the sun with an unmistakable amount of uncontrollable power. I select a narrow stick that would make for an efficient torch if not used for an instrument of violence. The flower should be dead as well! I shall right this wrong within the universe. Brutus thought he was balancing out his actions when in reality he was worth so much more than Caesar. He was a true leader, someone who could lead with the logic of a thousand or more men. Who now will lead our moral compass? How are we so outnumbered when Antony only provokes violence and is unable to utilize logic long enough to prove his own argument? I cannot take it! A plethora of the exquisitely soft petals fall to the charred ground as I wrench the stem from its roots. I bring forth the stem to the crackling fire. The emotions that run throughout my body should be shamed. Never has death of such an unworthy opponent felt so justified. The innocence, along with my hope for humanity, incinerates as each petal is taken by the rapid oxidation.

I walk along these streets of cobblestone that were built when both Caesar and Brutus still walked among us. An extreme cloud of sadness hangs over my head and develops thoughts of my own worthlessness. Who am I to wander throughout these streets? I must return to the bustling center of the city, for maybe I could find rest at my humble abode to ease this depressed state. As I return, my mind wanders to all that is lost. After the announcement of Brutus’ untimely demise, Antony proceeded to return his manipulative ways to once again organize the system of brainwashed beings to destroy us one by one. We hear threats in the streets from his followers that we shall be killed if we continue our loyalty to Brutus’ mindset. I am ready for that day to come; we all our ready for our death. Without Brutus we are lost in a state of grief and resentment. Every single one of us would have taken his place last night. If I could trade his life for mine I would in a heartbeat. I am brought back into my tormented reality by the sound of yelling coming from around the capitol. I begin to run towards the commotion. There is no use for this type of disturbance this late, due to the simple fact that there is nothing in this area except for the capitol and abandoned houses. Ever since Brutus’ death, no Antony supporter dared to enter the cluster of houses that surrounded the capitol. I was the only one who lived in this perimeter, in order to escape the masses and to protect the former house of Brutus. All of my acquaintances under Brutus vowed to live in obscurity until we could devise a plan. Who would be here at such a time? Antony and his loyalists have no usage out of my abode unless...

These heartless hinds! Such pyromaniacs that dare to destroy the last materialistic remembrance of Brutus all because they cannot comprehend the hamartia of Caesar. I let my emotions overtake me. My heartbeat quickens and I cannot breathe; my vision blurs and refocuses, only to blur once more. From the shadows rises the venomous offender himself, Marcus Antony. The halo of fire only illuminates the menacing smirk. The dagger he clutches as his footsteps come closer and closer, ever so closer, gleams within the orange blaze. Antony’s head slowly tilts to the left, his eyes demonic and dull. He has turned into the picture of power that he never wished to acquire. I am paralyzed with utter fear and helplessness and, for the final time, look into his eyes.

I feel myself slipping into the abyss and hear my final words slip from my conscience.

“Et tu, Antony?”

The land that I lived upon was a holy land; Rome was the city of powerful Senators who ruled their people with great dignity. Only a few weeks ago, Julius Caesar fell lifeless to the capitol building floor at the hand of his best friend, Decius Brutus. All entities know of this dastardly crime, but our country could not be more segregated. Some believed that the death of Caesar was unnecessary; however, I had acknowledged that Brutus would do anything to improve the life of all citizens of Rome, for the greater good of Rome consumed all of his waking days. Us followers of Brutus were severely outnumbered by those who had been brainwashed by the dastardly Marc Antony, who believed that Caesar was not ambitious in his motives and successfully manipulated the majority of citizens against us. Today would hopefully prove to be the end of the controversy. ​The divided citizens of Rome stood scattered among the field upon the outskirts of the capitol building as the pyre is set ablaze. Whilst staring into the oxidation of dalbergia melanoxylon wood into the air as our leader burns upon the stake in an extreme act of martyrdom, just as he murdered his best friend for the benefit of all of us on that blessed day during the Ides of March, I realize that not all heroes lay out their destiny with perfect actions. Brutus was a man who had murdered a seemingly perfect hero, but he disposed of him for he could see that deep within the all-powerful Julius Caesar was the heart of a tyrant. ​No one could have halted this utter destruction of mayhem throughout the land. If Caesar were alive, the great Brutus would not have to fall, but the citizens would live under the tyrannical reign of their own decorated war hero. After the joyous day of Caesar’s termination from our society, Brutus promised that if his death would settle the divided nation, then death he shall receive. He could have traditionally fallen onto his sword, but he wanted to make sure that all knew of his death, so that we may be at peace and restore our divided nation. As I raise my head to see the glorious man, the spark turned into a raging flame. Now, his body began to burn. ​There was no expression in eyes, rather they were calm and calculated as all of his strategic notions were. There was no outcry of pain, for his lips seemed to be sewn shut. I could stop this terror, but I choose not to; even as the screams of petrified citizens fill the brutally frigid air around us, I remain frozen within my position. I tear my vision away from the man who our principles are founded on, and a single white flower that begins to burn within the flames comes within my focus. I would be jubilant in the ignorance to how the demise and destruction of my world will be once Antony’s minions take over, but analytical conceptualization is the greatest strength of my organism. I shall be the one to lead now that the esteemed Brutus is nothing more than ashes.

I was always fond of Decius Brutus, for he was diverse from the rest of my peers. Even as a schoolboy he had a nature that no one could explain. He had an unexplainable atmosphere to him when he stated how he wanted to one day save Rome and maybe one day become a martyr. I must not reminisce in these once present memories any longer, for I feel nothing towards them. Forevermore I shall be hardened to all aspects that symbolize our fallen leader. As my daydreams drift away as the waterlilies so often did in the lake by my abode, I cannot be a stone-cold soldier to the world nor can the others. I watch while Cassius and Decius fall to their knees in grief whilst Portia merely watches as the sun sinks over the deadened horizon. There is no hope in these souls. I, for one, can not look away from the ashes that once constructed the body known as Brutus. I cannot seem to fathom that he is deceased, for I feel the presence of those icy blue eyes. And yet a single tear trickles from my piercing grey eyes. The atmosphere is stained with his remembrance. The fire blazes for hours and even into the dead of night, and within the depths of the darkness and the silence around me, I realize that I am unaccompanied by the masses. Within the orange and black strokes of light illuminating my being, the rods within the lining of my retina detect the purest of colors. How can an object be so pure in the midst of a tragedy? The once luscious greenery around the beauteous flower is charred from the blaze, but the blossom is disgracefully intact. Although the survival of this inflorescence is shocking, my mind becomes angered at the fact that while a bud survived, the imperative organism could not. The once rapid oxidation calls me to its dying embers. They glow of the sun with an unmistakable amount of uncontrollable power. I select a narrow stick that would make for an efficient torch if not used for an instrument of violence. The flower should be dead as well! I shall right this wrong within the universe. Brutus thought he was balancing out his actions when in reality he was worth so much more than Caesar. He was a true leader, someone who could lead with the logic of a thousand or more men. Who now will lead our moral compass? How are we so outnumbered when Antony only provokes violence and is unable to utilize logic long enough to prove his own argument? I cannot take it! A plethora of the exquisitely soft petals fall to the charred ground as I wrench the stem from its roots. I bring forth the stem to the crackling fire. The emotions that run throughout my body should be shamed. Never has death of such an unworthy opponent felt so justified. The innocence, along with my hope for humanity, incinerates as each petal is taken by the rapid oxidation.

I walk along these streets of cobblestone that were built when both Caesar and Brutus still walked among us. An extreme cloud of sadness hangs over my head and develops thoughts of my own worthlessness. Who am I to wander throughout these streets? I must return to the bustling center of the city, for maybe I could find rest at my humble abode to ease this depressed state. As I return, my mind wanders to all that is lost. After the announcement of Brutus’ untimely demise, Antony proceeded to return his manipulative ways to once again organize the system of brainwashed beings to destroy us one by one. We hear threats in the streets from his followers that we shall be killed if we continue our loyalty to Brutus’ mindset. I am ready for that day to come; we all our ready for our death. Without Brutus we are lost in a state of grief and resentment. Every single one of us would have taken his place last night. If I could trade his life for mine I would in a heartbeat. I am brought back into my tormented reality by the sound of yelling coming from around the capitol. I begin to run towards the commotion. There is no use for this type of disturbance this late, due to the simple fact that there is nothing in this area except for the capitol and abandoned houses. Ever since Brutus’ death, no Antony supporter dared to enter the cluster of houses that surrounded the capitol. I was the only one who lived in this perimeter, in order to escape the masses and to protect the former house of Brutus. All of my acquaintances under Brutus vowed to live in obscurity until we could devise a plan. Who would be here at such a time? Antony and his loyalists have no usage out of my abode unless...

These heartless hinds! Such pyromaniacs that dare to destroy the last materialistic remembrance of Brutus all because they cannot comprehend the hamartia of Caesar. I let my emotions overtake me. My heartbeat quickens and I cannot breathe; my vision blurs and refocuses, only to blur once more. From the shadows rises the venomous offender himself, Marcus Antony. The halo of fire only illuminates the menacing smirk. The dagger he clutches as his footsteps come closer and closer, ever so closer, gleams within the orange blaze. Antony’s head slowly tilts to the left, his eyes demonic and dull. He has turned into the picture of power that he never wished to acquire. I am paralyzed with utter fear and helplessness and, for the final time, look into his eyes.

I feel myself slipping into the abyss and hear my final words slip from my conscience.

“Et tu, Antony?”