Chapter Eighteen - Strained Relationship
“Okay, look. Mark is really, really, sorry he dumped you the way that he did. The thing is, Toby has had a crush on you since forever and Mark decided to step aside and let him take his shot.” Carla asks Gina.
“What?! Are you saying that Mark never loved me!” Gina demands.
“I don’t know if Mark ever loved you or not, but Toby does.” Carla answered.
“Did you know Mark was going to break up with me?” Gina continues.
“Of course I didn’t. If I would have known, I would have given you a heads up.” Carla insists. Gina studies Carla face for several minutes.
“You did know!” Gina decided, “So, the three of you are planning a way to get me to like Toby. Is that why he was your ‘date’ on Saturday.”
“It’s not like that. I only wanted what was best for you and Mark isn’t it.” Carla explained.
“Is that why you were worried about whether I was going to break up with him, because you wanted him to break up with me first!” Gina accused.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Carla shot back.
“You are my best friend” Gina says as she starts crying. Gina felt a strong sense of betrayal. Like when you find out you thought you knew someone, but you really didn’t.
“I am your best friend.” Carla assures, “I would have never let this happen if I didn’t think it was for the best.”
“Get away from me, it’s like I don’t even know you.” Gina declared. Gina was hurt. Her boyfriend whom she loved had dumped her and her best friend was in on it and didn’t tell her. She had to take some time to process everything. Carla had always had her back. If she couldn’t trust Carla, who could she trust?
While Gina’s life was falling apart, Toby was trying to find someone capable of creating a potion to counteract a powerful spell. He tried entering some search terms into Google, but he didn’t get anything back worth mentioning. He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy though. Someone capable of that kind of power wouldn’t want to attract a lot of attention. Toby decided to take a different approach.
Mark decided to check out a meeting of the “Wizards and Warlocks” gaming club. Anyone who would be interested in that type of role-playing game might know something. Mark entered the classroom designated for the meeting and all the activity in the room stopped. You know when something just looks out of place, like it doesn’t belong? That is what Mark looked like. Mark was invading a space reserved for social outcasts and students who had tastes that were to say the least odd.
Everyone was eyeing Mark suspiciously. Mark wasn’t a social outcast. There was some unwritten but understood rule that people like Mark didn’t belong here. The truth was that Mark himself had served as a knight and knew more about wizards and warlocks than anyone else in the room.
The teacher who presided over the class was one of the school’s counselors. He kept his hand on the pulse of the student body and didn’t leave out those deemed invisible by others.
“Can I help you?” The counselor said to Mark as he made his way into the classroom.
“Yeah, I’m interested in learning how to role play.” Mark answered in as disarming a voice as he could muster.
“You’ve come to the right place.” The counselor responded, “The best way to learn is to observe. We’re in the middle of a campaign right now and you’ve come at an exciting point.”
“How does it all work?” Mark asked.
“Well, everyone creates a character that they use to interact with in the game. There is a narrator, which right now is me, who decides what happens based of character decisions.”
“That sounds great, is there magic in the game?” Mark asks.
“There are characters that wield magic.” The counselor admitted.
“It would be cool if magic existed in real life.” Mark offered.
“There is magic all around us.” The counselor responded, “The rays of the sun, the beauty of a flower. The cycle of rainfall and the miracle of birth”
“All those things can be explained by science” Mark answered.
“We understand the processes of nature through the lens of science, but that doesn’t make it any less magical.” The counselor corrected.
“But what about real magic?” Mark asked.
“What do you mean?” The counselor followed up.
“Well, I kind of screwed things up for a friend and this girl he likes now hates him. If Magic existed, I could make her fall back in love with him.” Mark explained.
“Relationships can be difficult,” The counselor agreed, “In fact, that’s the whole reason I have a job. Your friend doesn’t need a shortcut, if he really wants her to like him again, he’s going to have to put in the work.”
“You’re right, of course. I just feel horrible about it, that’s all” Mark replied.
“I get that.” The counselor responded, “You want to be a good friend. I wish I could help but there’s no magic when it comes to relationships that last, only hard work.”
“Thanks anyway.” Mark answered.
Mark stuck around and watched the game unfold. The adventurers had stumbled upon a nest of giant wasps and had to fight for their very lives. There were a lot of dice rolled and action dramatized. One character did die but the rest managed to survive.
After the session was over, Mark left to go home. He wasn’t exactly sorry he came but he didn’t get any information that helped him get Gina’s memories back. As he was leaving the school grounds, he heard someone calling to him. The voice was faint, and he turned to see where it was coming from. It was one of the students.
“You need a love potion?” The student asked.
“You got one?” Mark shot back.
“Maybe.” The student answered.
“Where did you get it?” Mark inquired.
“I know a guy” The student responded.
“I actually need a potion to restore someone’s memory.” Mark confided.
“That’s a little harder but I do know a guy that can do it.” The student said.
“Then let’s do it.” Mark continued.
“It’s gonna cost you.” The student explained.
“That’s not a problem.” Mark assured.
Quantity vs. Quality
Disclaimer: Whenever you are generalizing roughly half of the world's population, there are going to be exceptions. This is a good thing because if there were no exceptions we would all be doomed.
Men want to spread their seed around to get as many chances as possible to produce offspring. Since men don't get pregnant, they can spread their seed around to a lot of women fairly quickly. This is the reason why men are not picky, being picky would restrict this spreading around process.
Women want the best possible genetic material with which to create offspring. Since women do get pregnant and since being pregnant is time consuming women don't get that many chances to produce children over the course of their life. This is the reason women are picky, they have to make the most of what chances they get.
These two completely logical mating practices kind of screw things up for people. What ends up happening is that most women gravitate toward "a few good men" and gravitate away from the unwashed masses. Men have to work a lot harder to secure mating opportunities than women do and there is that "too many choices" paralyzing people into thinking they can always do better. The only group this is good for is the "few good men". Everyone else is pretty unhappy about the situation.
Society could always try and force people against their nature. We have already tried that and while it worked for a while, nature reasserted itself. The only hope anyone has is finding that "exception" I talked about in my disclaimer. I think that's pretty much the conclusion I've come to. Until then, remember the "4 no's", No sex, No marriage, No dating, and No children!
What can you do about it?
break eye contact with God
wipe your smile off my face
praise the state of—
capitalism
Denmark
the suit of clubs
replace each o
with an a
anthropomorphize
the internet
kill
its Frankenstein
body
stop counting
the calories
from our third date
change
change the locks
change the fraction
change it back
time myself
counting photons
on their way back
from Pluto
outrage the earthquakes
that bring me
to my knees
curl the earth
under each fingernail
breathe
letters and texts
I always get complimented on my writing. It's not just for the creative pieces or the legal memos that I write day after day. Although I suppose the praise for that never hurts.
No. The compliments are always about the writings I do at my most vulnerable. Beyond the creative mind or even my analytical one.
It's about the writings from my soul. Cliche? Maybe. But it's true.
It'll be the handwritten letters I write in my most contemplative mornings, the rarest of days that I wake up early. Or the late night texts from when I lay down for bed, my cheeks aching from laughing all night with my friends.
It is only then, that I truly write how I feel.
I tell my friends how grateful I am for them to even exist. For them to be in my life. I write of their greatest accomplishments. Especially the ones they never see. How beautiful their souls are or how kind their eyes can be. The compliments flow easy and I somehow never have to write a lie.
And though I write and I write, no one ever seems to write for me.
'Oh, but I'm not good with words like that!'
'You have such a wonderful way with words. Nothing I say could compare!'
It seems that all those in my life are lacking in this particular skill.
Or perhaps I'm not worth writing for.
Regardless, I keep writing. Waiting for the moment in which the words will come together for those I love and maybe someday I too shall receive a letter.
Eight of Swords
How tight are the cloths bound along my hands?
Are they even tied at all?
I stand on the shore, salty water pooling beneath my feet. The sand gives way. I feel the coolness of a blade on my heel. I panic. Flail.
Fall.
Weeping maiden, trapped.
Am I?
The air only smells of the sea.
Are my captors lying in wait?
Or have they left me to my misery, knowing I would keep myself?
The Sounds They Make
Blinded by the cheap rent and the convenient location, I hadn't noticed the apartment's paper-thin walls when I first moved in. These walls now tell the story of my evenings, bringing parts of lives and sounds I do not belong to.
The laughter of the couple next door started it all, a warm, contagious sound that made me smile despite my own shortcomings. I saw them in my mind's eye—young, in love, making supper in a tiny kitchen that was identical to mine but strangely happier. On the evenings when my own apartment felt too quiet and empty, their laughter was a comfort.
Then there was the elderly man upstairs, his footfall above my head in a steady, reassuring beat. He would walk back and forth for exactly one hour from one end of his apartment to the other every evening at seven. I imagined him, towering and hunched over, lost in thought about the days long past, counting his steps as he went. His regimen became a part of my own, a cue that the day was coming to an end and it was time to unwind.
And there were quiet sobs, too, soft and heartbreaking, from the apartment below me. The woman who wept into the night, her sobs a private sorrow, had a name I never knew. I would hope that the tones from my guitar would permeate the floorboards and console her in her sadness as I would play a sweet, wordless lullaby for her on those nights.
These sounds—fragments of lives—became my life's soundtrack, an ever-present reminder of the invisible bonds that bind us all together. I started to sense that we were all connected to this accidental community—not by sight, but by sound, by the shared humanity that pierced the walls.
One evening, the noises ceased. The footsteps, the arguments, the weeping, and the laughing. The absence of sound was more startling than even the loudest cry out as silence descended, heavy and unsettling. I lay awake, breathing heavily in the silence, till I knew what had to be done.
I took up my guitar and began to play. I played a hopeful and healing tune for the couple that lived next door. I played a sentimental and soothing tune for the elderly man who lives upstairs. I performed a song of solace and fortitude for the woman beneath me. I performed for myself, seeking a sense of unity and inclusion.
Their sounds, entwined in the symphony of existence, convey a story about our lives as well as theirs. And while I was playing, I pictured them listening in the calm of the night, each in their own apartment, a quiet acknowledgement of our common journey—a community united by sound rather than sight—bounded by the walls dividing us and the lives that, in some strange way, bind us together.
The Color of Trees
I was born into a world devoid of color, one that people spoke about with such ardor and emotion all the time. For years, smells, sounds, and sensations more than colors molded my reality. I never thought of trees as green; instead, they were the rough bark beneath my fingertips, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, and the smell of the dirt after a rainstorm. Sensations, vivid in their own special ways, filled my mind as it painted the globe.
Then, a method that promised sight but was experimental and full of unknowns, proved to be the breakthrough. I had never heard of the very concept. What did the word "see" mean? My family was quite supportive of my decision to get the operation, full of cautious hope. The appeal of seeing the world through the eyes of others was too strong to refuse, even though the hazards were enormous.
A cocoon of anticipation and dread surrounded recovery. My eyes were shielded from the new world that awaited me by bandages. It was like a fresh start the day they were taken out. The light in the room was dazzling, overwhelming in its intensity. I squinted against the light, amazement and tears blending together.
Green was the first color I really noticed. The rich, vivid green of the trees beyond the hospital window, not just any green. It was not at all what I had anticipated. Its depth and beauty could not be adequately conveyed by words or descriptions. Above was the sky, an endless blue expanse that served as a canvas for the sun's golden rays. I was enthralled, lost in the freshness of the hues, as each one made a long-lost friend acquaintance with me.
My world has changed from being characterized by darkness to a rainbow of hues. I could not stop staring at objects that I had previously only touched or smelled for hours. Flowers were amazing, with their delicate petals and enticing scents. My perception of the world was expanded by the pairing of colors with the familiar textures.
But my heart was won over by the trees. I strolled amidst them, caressing their trunks, realizing now what hue complemented the coarse bark. A visual symphony, the leaves danced in a variety of shades of green in the light breeze. At that moment, I realized that trees were living, breathing creatures as well as physical objects—each one a magnificent work of nature.
I had a ravenous curiosity that led me to explore the world as the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months. The sensation of being able to see clearly prompted feelings of responsibility and deep thankfulness. I witnessed the earth's vulnerability in addition to its beauty. I had no idea that colors could represent the state of the earth and its suffering.
I started to promote the preservation of nature, bringing attention to the problems we were facing with the environment by utilizing my distinct viewpoint. My efforts were centered around the trees and their array of green hues. I discussed their significance as priceless pieces of art that enhanced our planet, in addition to serving as wildlife refuges and oxygen sources.
More than just a personal transformation, my journey from darkness to light served as a call to action. Trees' vibrant, living colors served as a constant reminder to me of the beauty that is worthy of striving for. My image of a world where nature is valued, conserved, and allowed to thrive emerged when I gained the ability to see.
The true color of trees is not just green, as I discover as I stand beneath the canopy of a towering oak, its leaves whispering secrets in a language of rustles and sighs. It is a symbol of the tenacity and splendor of the natural world, and the color of life itself. And it's nothing short of astounding for someone who never saw before.
Dementia
One day
photos won't be enough
to trigger a mem'ry
a moment
a feeling;
One day,
the stories photos tell,
will be unremembered
forgotten
gone, effaced;
One day,
photos won't be enough
to confirm we have loved
that we laughed
and we lived.
One day,
before the photos fade
the edges turn yellow
and curl
and crack,
our eyes,
our minds, will dim and wane
we will wander the halls
of remembrance
blindly.
One day,
you won't recognize me
in a photo or here,
at your side,
holding hands;
One day,
before the world goes black
and death takes our last breath
photos won't
be enough.
In sharp focus
One day, photos won't be enough,
When you don't recognise the people in them
And they don't remember you were there
Because all the focus was on capturing the memory
And not actually living it
One day, photos won't be enough
That joyful wedding day snap
Won't soothe the sting of your indifference
Or bring back love that's faded
Because we stopped trying
One day, photos won't be enough
When the earth is burning
And ecosystems are in collapse
And our existence is on the edge of extinction
Those holiday albums won't save us