I always thought love was a feeling. But it isn’t. Love isn’t even an emotion. Part of the reason love is so indescribable, and so misunderstood, is because love is an action. It’s something you do, is to love. I can tell you that when I’m hungry, my stomach feels like a mountain avalanche is happening inside of it; rumbling and shaking and growling, screaming to be fed. But when I’m driving, it’s so hard to explain that to someone who’s never driven before. I just drive. Start the car, change my gears, accelerate, brakes, turn signal, whatever. I just drive. I can’t explain well enough how I drive. And everyone has different ways that they explain how they drive, but it’s hard to understand until you do it yourself; then you have your own way of explaining it. That’s love. The problem with that is, you can love just about anyone or anything. I love my mom and dad. I love my sisters and brothers. I love my cat and my dog. I love my car, roses, the smell of New York City, chocolate, cheese, being warm in the winter. I love all of these things, but there is no way to really measure that love. Do I love cheese more than I love flowers? Do I love my mom more than my dad or my sisters or brothers? Just because I have any favorites, does that mean I love the color yellow any less than I love my new shoes? Love isn’t less or more. What you’re willing to do for the things and people you love, that’s what matters. I’d be willing to learn to fly using just my own two arms for my mom, I’d be willing to walk the long way home for my brand-new shoes, and I’d be willing to climb 70 feet to save my cats. If these things weigh differently for you, they may weigh the same for someone else, or in different ways. I can tell you, when I’m sad, I want to cry, I want to lock myself away, and I want to be alone. When I love, I want to save the world. Their world. Whatever it is that I love, I want to save it from harm, even from a speck of dirt. When I love, I don’t feel anything inside of me. Love isn’t how romance novels make it out to be. My heart doesn’t flutter, and I don’t lose my breath when I hear someone say, “I love you.” I don’t feel nervous to say it back anymore. I’ve only been nervous to say it to people I date. Because what if I don’t love them. What if I’m only saying it to feel something, to feel what love-story novelists say I’m supposed to feel. What if I force myself to feel that way, what if I’m tricking myself. That was before I knew the feeling doesn’t matter. What would you be willing to do for the people you love? What would you be willing to do for the people you think you love? What would I be willing to do for her? Would I be willing to fly?

Does that include this heartache I feel in my chest?

Will my heart not feel likes it's breaking for a whole week.

I would love for this depression to go away even if its just for a little while.

I would be able to focus on what needs to be done.

With no pain I wouldn't get into fights with my older brother on a daily routine.

I wouldn't need to.

When it comes to the physical aspect of pain

I would get the tattoos I have been too afraid to get and the few piercing I want too

I would run as much as I can as the ache in my knees will be gone

and my chest won't ache, my muscles won't cramp up forcing me to stop.

I would run everyday of the week because thats is truly the only time I feel free

but my body holds me back from achieving that.

My father is a quiet, steady man. Religious and a level headed man. Took the role as a mother when his wife died. Raised 4 strong, bright daughters. There aren't enough thank yous' in this world. He's one people wish they could be. He's everything I could ever want in a father. Loves and loves unconditionally. I'll always be a daddy's girl. I am who I am and it's all thanks to him.

I never knew you. Never heard of you until to be honest. I looked you upon Google. I love music, so you interested me. You were an amazing person who suffered from horrible things. Nearly 4 octave range voice? I can barely sing a nice sounding tune. You could play so many ranges of music. I can barely play the flute. You did so much with your life, you could've done even more. 

But you suffered from depression and substance abuse, which took a toll on your life. You died, by your choice, and now we can't hear anything new. Repeats and repeats. Sort of like rewatching a TV show after it ends. You know what's going to happen, but you watch it regardless. This isn't a joke though. We will never, ever hear a news oh my gosh from you. 

This letter is to people considering suicide or self harm as well. I have three words for you.  Don't. Do. It. People will blame themselves and will never get over it. People you barely know but met at some time will grieve because they dint get to know you. And just because the sun will still rise and the moon set after you kill yourselves, that is not a justified reason to kill yourself. Nothing is. Nothing ever will be. 

But Chris, you were amazing with what you did and now I think I will listen to your music to see how amazing you truly are. Thanks you for be such a savior to people and touching so many hearts. I never heard of you until now, but I wish I had knew you sooner.

-Katt

Not a Joke

Suicide is not a joke

Nor is snorting coke

Mental illnesses are a real thing

Unlike your sparkly bling

Never push someone too far away

Otherwise their day might turn grey

They might end up in a box

And you with their rocks

If a person says they have this

Don't say they're spewing piss

Listen to them with all your might

Because it might just help them in their fight

Remember it's not a joke

Because some people might croak

From their own two hands

And no one wants to bury them in the sand

It's not a joke

Never, especially when people croak 

Walking alone on the road, like a lion. Silently, fighting in my head. Walking alone like a lion among sheep, surrounded by chaos. Listening to the echos of humans trivialities, as they shouting and mumbling, whistling and whispering. Giggling weed and protocol.

Pretending they alive.

"Spare a quarter Ms, spare a quarter Sir" the homeless says, as I pass him by with yellowed smile under my skin, like shriveled flower. "Sorry" I said, in my chaotic head. I'm either in a rush or too busy to dig-in into my messy pocket searching in for a quarter. In my pocket, I've got gums to chew on after smoking a cigarette, so people do not smell the smoke coming out of my mouth, because I like to appear neat and clean. So I keep the smoke onto my lungs. I've got napkins to wipe away the sweat on my forehead when I go for a walk and starting to sweat. I knew it's gonna be a long walk, and I'll sweat.

Sorry homeless man, but I'm too busy. In fact, I'm uncertainly too busy. Too busy with monitoring the traffic light as it turns green-yellow-red... red-yellow-green... yellow-red-green, and so on... There's no enough time to uplift my arm and dig-in my fingers into my messy pocket looking for a quarter. I'm too busy in my head, while my eyes screwing around with a sexy blonde female walking towards me. See, I'm a huge fan of the blonde hair with green and blue eyes, and orangey-skin, like an Irish cake just came out of the sun, like sun-pie after swimming in the ocean and the ocean turned her eyes blue. And no, I would never betray the green eyes, the eyes who carrying the pureness of wilderness and kindness within, hell! I am lost in green. Neither call me racist though, I'm a lover of art that resembled in women body and soul of all colors and shapes, like flowers. I'm an art lover who addicted to green. I'll tell you more about the 'Green Moon' later as you walk with me.

Meanwhile, I'll walk along with the quarter still in my pocket reminds me of the homeless man, and watch for the traffic while my eyes crossing each other and rolling all over the sidewalk. On the side-walk I would watch her seductive legs that decorated with high heels and short skirt, as my hormones flushing through my veins, wanting to jump out of my pants and climb up on her smooth, silky mountains in those tight jeans or yoga pants, that shines and bright like diamonds under the sunlight. "Thanks yoga pants!" I said, I've become an animal.... Or I am?!

Man... I'm a lion with many skills if you'd see, but I do not do well in circus. I was born king crowned with dignity, honour, honesty, and heart-- burning and glowing with love. I was born wild in wilderness, skillfully and bravely hunt down my prey. But my roars from long-distance running them away from me before I even get there. It's so hard to get a chance to express my love for the other animals. Look, if my roars scare you, I'm sorry! but I don't know pretend. Although, I'm trying to fit-in in circus. And maybe you can make me jump through fire rings and dance on two feet, like humans. Though, you'd be my prey if you'd find your way to my den, and believe me! You will love it. Because, nowhere like home.

But what's reality anymore, in circus? I waxed my eyebrows, and built-up some muscles to impress. I faked a smile on my face, like a piece of art on the wall, covering the cracks. And she poured off bunch of mixed up powders and colorful paints on her face. Covered up the blemishes under her eyes, re-shaped her eyelashes, and drew an artificial smile on her lips. Values are lost. Blended with the low price, and highly paid the cost. Sights... or maybe we both trying to cover the scars.

"It's called life" they said, a modern life? Well thanks to modern technology, and brainwash machine called TV, that taught us the standards of beauty dwells "On" our skin, and the standards of beauty is being a model. Eat like a model, dress-up like a model, and walk like a model. Become a model. They even thought that our genital parts should become a model, too, so they invented summer's eve. And of course, varieties of condoms of all flavors and colors. Thanks, again!

Life is like a TV show and everyone is invited, whether they like it or not. And no matter how good or bad at acting you are, they have got a role for you. They have got a role for everyone, and everyone will follow the script. Here's a chapter from the script: black being black, white acting white, and the brown just happy to be in between. But, human! Maybe you know that it is mandatory being on the show, but have you ever thought of who running the show and writing the script? Have you actually thought that there global, I mean... universal issues are much deeper than racism? That should be your priority, rather than feeding on each other's blood like vampires. That without them our life would be much better and easier. peaceful! And the other issues on the surface like racism and sex-discrimination, etc... which you're fighting for, they even, won't be exist in the first place! If you'd cut the roots. Have you really read the script carefully and understood the terms and conditions? Ok, maybe you don't know what I'm talking about. Hint? Capitalism. Look, I don't know you, human, I don't know how much do you know. But, I do know that everyone is playing their role. And I'm playing mine too.

I carry-on. Keep walking. My head like a hard drive stores the stories, the stories that I'm gathering with each footstep, as I carry my heavy backpack on my shoulders along with my own story, like identification and declaration to 'Circus City Membership,' like warrior shield and badge of honour as circus survival, and also a "Get-away" token from the tourist tour ticket sellers "don't you dare selling me! I am a worrier from this army" I said, as I swiftly pass them by with solid and determined eye looking straight ahead on the road. I know where I'm going. We all are sold.

Vroom, Vroom, Vroom, the sound of the winds while I'm passing through the crowd, while dodging from left to right, leaning my shoulders here and there, like a lion dancing on circus melody. When two-three steps ahead are direct and clear I feel like a Ferrari on the highway, but I know it's circus, not a highway. Therefore, I would look straight ahead on the road to make sure the way is clear, for more security before I switch to full speed, then I find a heavy-headed truck running on the opposite direction, towards me! So I lean my shoulders in both directions. Left, he follows. Right, he follows. The heavy-headed truck doesn't seem to read my signals, neither I would go full stop. Instead, I would push a little bit more of gas and turn my shoulders ahead instead of my chest, and squeeze-in. I finally make it through while my butt squeezing against coffee shop door, deli store door, liquor store door, or just a wall, and often against another acrobatic`s.

I'm like half mile away from crossing the street, and make it to the other side! I HAVE to make it to the other side. I've been walking for so long now, alone, on my bare feet. I'm so exhausted, but my eyes fully attention! One on the traffic screen as it counts down 9,8,7... and one on the road like sword splashing onto the air, always ready! To dodge the upcomings, and one in my head visualizing and analyzing the distance. Almost there, almost there, almost... and all of a sudden! A phoney human-like coming out of nowhere, to bump into me. Seriously! Dude... well, that's great, I now have to wait for about 10 seconds more till the light turns green, again! What a waste of time! I just lost 10 seconds while trying to kill some hours, because they're useless.

Funny... I'm too busy even in my spare times. Guess I just used to it, I used to it that I became an expert time killer. Although, I'm not really free but busy, busy with drowning in my own chaotic head, like the abandoned city. Noisy in silence, after the soul departed and went to wandering in the landscape. Looking for its lost shatters in the moonlight.

"It's called life" I remind myself, swim or dive. Or fly if you have to, to survive. Well... I did fly! I flew across the landscapes from the harsh desert to the deep ocean, and fell into the 'Green Moon.' I thought the moon was filled with water and ice, but this one was filled of pain and suffer, filled of wildness and childish heart. Stories, and childhood just like mine! Grown too soon. Wasted in the deep ocean like Titanic. I saw my picture in them like, a mirror reflection. My soul wanted to reach out and gather the fragments that belongs to me. I was looking for them since forever! But then, I tell myself, it's too far away, out of my reach. I knew it was too far from my reach. Although, my stubborn soul did not obey me, he said, "souls meant to be free." And sank into the moon instead of becoming a whole, as long as I yearned for. And ever since I've become nothing but lost shatters into the moonlight, and I've lost my soul, too.

Who am I anymore but a little bird with broken wings walking on the sidewalk, with footsteps pushes one another towards the wall, to avoid eye contacts, to hide the broken wings in its eyes. Walking in circus, inhaling dust from the past, bleeding from the long journey and scars, and exhaling pain. Sings sorrow from the heartache. 

Who am I? But a homeless looking for a spare quarter of happiness in a poor world. 

My chaotic world.

                                     #chaoticworld.                                       #sorrow

                                #consciousness.                                    #journey 

  #hashtag            #humanitarian                                     #spiritual 

                             #capitalism                                        #heartache

                                 #political                                         #greenmoon

                                          #cultural                                       #brokenwings

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare. 

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have that same priest later take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Cómo se dice my brother is dead? Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. 

Death is not finite. 

Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. 

We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my surviving brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. 

Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. 

I give him my empty whisky nip. 

I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon. My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says. 

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

I don't write, but when I do, the words flow from my brain like waves when the tide rushes in. I'm writing a short essay about how I don't write. How ironic. I don't write, yet sometimes I do. Specifically, I want to edit the beautiful words others string together to form magnificent works of art. Someday, I hope to be a book editor at a company like Simon & Schuster. So here I am, starting my life at a four year university, majoring in English because I have no idea how to become a book editor. Reading books, for me, is like seeing through someone else's eyes for a little while. I see their world, their friends, and their life. I feel what the characters feel. I find myself calling out to them, "Don't do it!" or saying, "I know exactly how you feel." I don't write, but when I do, it's usually a form of poetry or simply free verse. If you'd like to read something I've written, here is a poem I wrote this year when my best friend was killed in a car accident on New Year's Day titled "Goner": "All I feel is the warmth of your body, but that has been replaced with an icy sting.

All I can see is your beautiful smile, but now it's gone.

All I can imagine are your bright blue eyes, but now their light is out.

All I can hear is your laughter, but now it has faded away.

All I can smell is you, but that has been replaced with the stench of death.

How can such a beautiful soul be gone so soon?

So many promises made.

Now, I guess they will have to wait.

So many things left unspoken.

So many hearts are broken.

So much pain and loss.

My stomach feels like it's going to toss.

I can't fathom I'll never see your beautiful smile, bright eyes, hear your contagious laughter, feel your warmth, or smell the rich scent of you again.

You're gone, and I guess that makes me a goner too.

You took part of my heart with you when you left.

I felt it take flight the minute they said you were gone.

So I'm a goner, just like you."

Most of my writing ends up coming through when my emotions are heightened. His death sparked some writing in me, but after I realized he was actually never coming back, I knew what I had lost. I had lost my inspiration, my best friend, my love, and my balance. Therefore, the second time I tried to write after his death, nothing would come. This is how far I got on a poem titled "The Sparkle": "Sparkles come in many different forms. On a tiara. Or nail polish. A wedding ring. A pair of shoes. A leather chair. The glare on glass. The raindrops on my window. The tears streaming down my face because the bright eyes I once knew have lost their sparkle.

You had a magnificent, blue sparkle in your eyes. A sparkle I'd never seen before, and that's how I knew you were the one for me."

If you couldn't tell, I don't write. But when I do, my writing becomes magic. Thank you for your time in reading this essay with some poetry!

Good Morning, Prosers,

The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.

We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.

Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”

This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.

We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.

Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367

We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.