Before Tate's stroke, time was precise. The clock read in "4:30's" or "1:45's." Maybe it was just a coincedence that every time I looked at the clock it's hands made orderly halves and wholes. Whatever. That was better. It separated our days into clean, orderly fractions. Now, time is scrambled. What's shook my world has twisted time as well. I don't know if I can live on with this disaster hanging over me. I wish I could stop time completely. No more "12:37's" or "5:08's." Tate's paralyzed. And so is my world. On pause. On hold.

I sit on the side of Tate's cot. I'm trying to have a conversation with him but it isn't working. All of his words are taken apart and put back together in the wrong places. It makes me mad. And sad. How likely is it that this could have happened? What were the odds? One out of ten? One out of a hundred? I don't deserve this, and for god's sake, neither does Tate. So why? I think.

My brother once said that we are a part of infinite universes. Millions and trillions of dimensions. Each decision we make changes the course of our path, and our worlds split. Over and over again. Until we've built a tree of worlds, with branches sprouting at every second. If I hadn't chosen to go to the hospital today, would my world be different?Maybe not. But it could lead to something that I wouldn't have gotten to before.

If Tate hadn't gotten a stroke would things be different? Probably. But I'll never know. I'm stuck in this goddamn world. The other possibilities are only dreams in my imagination. What I wish things could be like. For now, I guess I will never know. Unknown.

It couldn't have appeared that he'd made no attempts.

The walls of his cuts stoop limp in ravishing ferocity,

Raw and swollen.

And the eyes,

Masked with red rust,

Refused to belay into wonderland.

Even so,

Whispering into the depths of the bones marrow,

The bitter rain should come with no mercy.

But,

As any string should,

It ignores its destiny,

And tumbles and knots,

And winds and tangles.

A believable plot tides from the inconsistency of life,

Its fate driven merely by the rise and fall of the sea.

And so it should’ve been expected.

She thrust the papers from the terrace with such force that he was firmly confident in the remembering of this scenario in later years of his life with vivid description.

As you fly in your aeroplane, you look down at the face of our planet and you see how humanity has scarred it; we’ve chiseled roads into its crust; made forests deserts; painted the blue oceans brown and green until you have to convince yourself they’re not massive patches of dirt; turned earth’s natural givens into progress, coal into flame, oil into fuel, wind into energy. And squinting you see the mountains and hills, the only curvature in a view of geometric squares and lines, because even in it’s beauty they are trapped within the confinement of our perfectly straight farm roads. And it appears from this height as if the cars are in a mechanical loop, gliding effortlessly across dusty highways. Houses, skyscrapers, offices; brown, silver, gray. Forests and oceans living in the remaining room on our planet, not yet touched by the hand of industrialization, rather, human life. And as I peer through my double paned window down below, I picture myself, and what it would be like if I was put right on mother earth’s face like dropping the hanging yellow man on Google Maps onto earth’s satellite. And my chest concaves as my hearts quickens as my breath shallows as my eyebrows pinches...because imagining myself in that ‘2D’ realm forces me to believe I am just another creation of humanity, another pawn born to live in it’s creation; to drive on long lines of highways that I cannot exit, to follow the expectation of marriage, to settle in a town which takes up a minor fraction of the world, to do nothing but carry out a routine everyday that consists of wasting time. To effectively escape the physical planet, to be flown out of existence, to be in the perspective of an alien, to look down on our creations and existing format is a dream. One of those dreams that are so relieving and impossible that when you wake up you want to punish your brain for introducing your mind to a new addiction so strong you’ve developed a self-induced torture mechanism. The beautiful thing is, it isn’t a dream, it’s real; in an aeroplane you’ve disappeared off of the face of the earth; your feet don’t touch humanities habitat; your weight does not bruise earth’s outer skin; you have no effect.

You. Are. Not. There. Yet. You. See.

This is a real life example of proof that you can exist when you don’t...

4:15. Schools out. I walk to the metro. Down the block, take a right, under the bridge, another right, up the escalator.

Everyday at the metro, I wish I could go on the train the other way. All of my life I’ve gotten on my train that’s headed to my house. That’s what my parents have taught me, from day one. In fact, it’s probably the most important first step to getting home. But my route home takes me underground; the dark, stuffy, bleak underground. And everyday on that ride home, I hate it. Why would I look out of the windows at brown pipe lined walls? If only my house was the other way. That way stays above ground. From the elevated platform you can see a sector of the rail roads that lead the train; above ground. And so I sit, because I know that I have to get home and finish my homework just so I can leave school the next day to do it all again.

4:15. Schools out. Down the block, take a right, under the bridge, another right, up the escalator.

It was today--a warm day for a February day, with sunshine and moisture in the air--that my brain fished through my scrambled thoughts and surfaced with an idea: go the other way. I stood, my small feet satisfied with the comfort of the ground, and contemplated my eagerness to this thought. I have homework, I thought, but then again, who doesn’t? Before my brain can process it, my legs hurry me to the other side of the platform. Brown hexagon tiles rush beneath my converse, streaming underneath me and then...they stop, still. I’ve made it, but why hasn’t anyone congradulated me? I ponder this thought scrutinizingly. But a recognizeable face pushes out that thought or two, no wait, I don’t recall...I see two girls who go to my school. Friends. They walk to the side I usually do. One of them glances at me, well, more of my feet then my eyes. Nervous? And then her curious eyes shoot down, blonde hair enveloping her face. She scurries after her friend, trying to pretend I didn’t see that. But I did, and it makes me chuckle. Me, embarassing to be seen with me? Huh. And there it is again, a thought. What if, maybe, she glanced at me and wondered why I was going that way. Did a thought shoot through her sun crowned head as to why I was going that way, and not home? And then I remind myself no one knows that I’m going the wrong way. And realizing that, it makes it even better. People think I’m going home. Hah, aren’t they fooled. Out of all these people, I’m the only one who knows why this girl is going this way. So this is my own little secret, I realize. The face of the bus appears around the curve. The curve, this is the first time I’ve seen this curve. Out all the times I’ve been on this platform I’ve never looked at that curve, and when would I if I hadn’t decided to do this. This reflection satifies my famished hunger for adventure, and so as the train invites the passengers to set forth on their route home, I join them. I weave through these “other way routers” and plop down on a bench, exasperated by this rebeliousness. But wait. I get up pushing my way to the doors, biggest windows in the house, remembering why I've made this decision. Face positioned in front of the glass, the train pulls away from the station.

It is a gift, yet a burden, to be the smartest species on our planet. To have the brains this mother birthed us is a gift, yet a burden.

We stand on a hill. Maybe the crows and chimpanzees sit with us. The turkeys weren’t invited, more like they weren’t smart enough to invite themselves. Albert Einsteins’ struggle the climb to the summit. Their smarts giving way to a journey to reach the top of that hill. But what is the summit? The answers to everything? God? Another dimension? Chaos?... Many of those on that hill stay put, unable to push themselves up, let alone walk to the top. They sit and speculate nothing, for what is there to learn if you haven’t taken the risk; the risk of falling. So there the smart and curious ones go, crawling, scrambling eagerly to that highest point to see what they can find. Many stop to rest, sitting and playing with the grass under their bottoms. They’ll stay there for months, maybe even years, and sometimes until they die; never being able to see what that summit would give them. They’re left wondering, yearning for more. But there the exceptionally smart ones go; bless those who be blessed with the power to climb this hill. Those at the bottom of the hill can’t see those few with their powerful legs any longer, because they’re too far gone. But up they climb using their brain power to reach the answers. And yet, it’s only a few--the genetically gifted, the talented, the “smarty pants”, the nerds--who near reach the top. Oh yes, and they’re almost there, crawling, scrambling, craving to know what lies beyond sight. It took a lifetime to be in this moment, to finallyunderstandwhateverythingisaboutwhattheirpurposeisonth--and here they are, at the summit. What they see makes them fall, fall to their knees onto the cold, icy snow because they are so far up. Their bones aching, their skin gray, their eyes blind, their hair knotted, and their knees bloodied they fall down the hill. The. Other. Side. Downdowndown they tumble, ragged dolls somersaulting downdowndown. And there the summit is, severing them from humanity. No longer will they share the same love and happiness and pain and tragedy and adrenaline with the rest of the world.

They say the smartest people are depressed. They know too much and are too good for the world they live in. What they know has ruined their perception of “right or wrong,” “true or false,” and “good or bad” in that original world, the part of the hill before the unveiling of all else. After, they have no one to relate to, no one to inspire them. Call me a clueless pessimist who is spewing false opinions and biases. But to be one exceptional mind in 7 billion must make the world seem slow moving. Maybe the ultimate answer it too painful to bear. Maybe that’s why geniuses are so rare. Humanity is protecting us from what is beyond ourselves; what our brains can’t process, grasp, understand. Is this a discouragement to be smart? No. But know that your smarts bite out of your life. The more you know the less innocent you’ll become. It was like when you were in junior high and learned about the Holocaust for the first time and you realized the world wasn’t all “world peace and community” after all. That veil of innocence was lifted. Each year, another was shed. After breaking your leg, after your boyfriend cheated on you, after your mom was diagnosed with cancer, after you lost someone, not that innocent sweetheart anymore, huh? No. Over time you’d be surprised how much you’ve learned. I’m not talking about writing and spelling and jumping rope and paying taxes and driving a car I’m talking about seeing how hard life is. Things won’t be the same the smarter and smarter you get. The more you know the less innocent you’ll be.

So: the blue pill, or the red pill? Would you rather live an ignorant life swimming around innocently like a fish in a tank or would you want to live knowing the “what’s,” the “why’s,” and the “how’s” of the most unanswered questions? If ever you make it to the summit and you glimpse an answer, I will warn you there may be pain, but it was before you fell that there was beauty.