Gratitude is a peculiar thing: often, it’s the very thing that we thought was a problem that we become most grateful. Likewise, that which we strive for, believing that it will somehow add value, often proves to be a curse. The reality is we rarely know what we actually want until we come face to face with an inescapable situation. In the event that we have worked to established a thing, one that does not prove to be what we really wanted, we suddenly wish for something else - usually something simple and more manageable. On the other hand, those moments and objects that we come to hold most dear, are those which spring upon us in ways that we never would have expected. We strive to control the factors surrounding our traditions, rituals, and memories, but it’s when we take a step back and observe that which is, rather than that which we desire to be, that we understand the less control we attempt to invoke, the more pleasant and more palatable the result. Life is not a sequence of planned events, rather it is a vast series of unexpected realities, that are, at times, influenced by our choices and desires. More than authors, we are interpreters translating the signals and stimuli that cross our sensory paths. The more we can speak to these events, the more we may feel a sense of control. But, every event and experience that we encounter contains the predictable inevitably of the unpredictable. We never know when the events before us will drastically shift in a different direction. It is in these moments that are gratitude is tested. Usually, we show our appreciation when things turn out the way we hoped they would, or at least close. But this is not so much gratitude as it is a sigh of relief that we still have control in our lives and experiences. True and pure gratitude is a much different sort. The truly gracious person appreciates whatever gift the moment produces, understanding that life is the giver of the gifts that we need. Since need is different that want, we are not always enthusiastic about the reception, but grateful nonetheless. There is a common misconception that gratitude should be accompanied by happiness in the moment, but this is not necessarily the case. One should show gratitude even in the midst of despair. Every event in life is a lesson to be learned, and our gratitude should focus on this reality. We may not be happy about the lesson, and most probably won’t be, for if we were happy about it, it is probably a lesson that we have already learned. We are not happy about that which has yet to be learned, because we are aware that this quality is a substance to which our soul is void. This is not a realization that brings about the emotion of happiness. However, for the sojourner who desires to grow, this understanding should produce gratitude in the fact that life has opened a path toward growth in a direction that we were not headed before.

I connected the freckles on your cheeks, and I found my way back home. I delved deep into your ocean eyes and the waves of solace carries me to our secret hideaway. In your thoughts and memories, I forever want to stay alive.Alive and young. Alive as the sweet birds that rouse me from my sleep. Young as the infant shells that resonate the wonders of the seas. You are my sweet bird, my infant shell. The soul whose voice is the Maestro to my heartbeat's orchestra, the poison which courses thorugh my veins, leaving me intoxicated.

And I hope that on many a dreadful nights, you too will clutch this close to your heart,

And recite the verses over and over, as they lull you to blissful sleep.

”It is better, I think, to grab at the stars than to sit flustered because you know you cannot reach them...at least he who reaches will get a good stretch, a good view, and perhaps even a low-hanging apple for his efforts”.

- Drizzt Do’Urden

“Almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow, but alive, gloriously alive, today.” - Mat Cauthon

To be human is to experience life to the fullest. Laugh, cry, smile. Dare to things you never thought you would do. Skip a class, go on a date with someone completely wrong, stay up late and get up early. Dance the night away and suffer consequences in the morning. Travel the world, or just to the city next to yours. Life isn't supposed to be monotonous, live like tomorrow is your last day.

Life isn't what others say it is.

Life is what you make it to be.

-Me

Some time ago, something happened to me and broke me completely,

shredding me into little pieces and leaving ragged holes inside.

I won’t tell you exactly what that was and who caused it,

because I think that is the irrelevant fact in this equation.

So I will just sum it up for you and maybe you’ll understand.

Because what is necessary here is the story itself. What happened to me, was surprising and unexpected and I felt that I didn’t expect such an outcome, the ground opening beneath me and swallowing me up.

Again, that’s how I felt that day. A dark Sunday turning to a Monday,

filled with tears that overflowed me and threaten to sink me whole.

Some would ask... Why the tears? Why the sorrow?

And all I would have to say would be:

A heart can break in so many ways.

No romance really necessary if a friend breaks your trust and disappears... but that wasn’t even it if I had to think about it twice. Just the sudden aspect of it all. I wasn’t ready for such an outcome, I didn’t have time to prepare. Just a blow in the guts and a goodbye. All in pleasant and in such a cultural way. One would say, no one was to blame. Funny though it hurt just the same.

The interesting part was what occurred at the same time. In a different place in the world, but the same place. Here on Prose. One friend wandered away from me, for the reason only known to that person alone. Though I might have a clue or a two. People don’t like when you break their walls and see too much. From one side you see more beauty and deeper meaning. From the other side, lies may fall out without warning. Small ones to be honest but with incredible meaning to the one who bears them... for me these lies didn’t mean much. Don’t we all try to look better in eyes of others? Don’t we all do that at one point in our lives?

I will let you answer that question on your own. You know the best.

But let me get back to this little story. When I was in a dark place, or even a little before, I found a different, amazing soul. We got talking and found out that we share similar broken parts. Similar pains and fears. I was breaking and sinking in my tears... and so was this little soul. Then we got to talk some more. It instantly clicked, our words matching up. Through time and healing words we gave each other the support that was needed to face the world as it left us. We helped each other to make it through.

A silver lining over a dark moon.

***

Don't write.

Don't do it on the bus, on your way to work. Don't do it between bites of your food, on your cellphone. Don't do it late at night, when you can't sleep. Don't write.

Don't scribble notes on a napkin. Don't write about the things you see. And if you do, write? Don't you dare do it honestly. Don't do it brutally or candidly. Don't tell people the truth, don't give it to them raw and uncut. Don't write.

Don't pick up the pen, don't pick up the habit of picking up the pen. Don't press pen to paper and create anything, at all, not even a drawing, not even a doodle, not even a dot, but most especially: Don't write. Don't invest in pens and pencils like drug paraphanalia you keep on-hand just in case you need another hit, another fix, another emotional selfie of how you feel in this very instant and how it relates to everybody else. Don't scramble for a piece of paper to write on like you dropped a rock in the floorboard and need to stuff it back in your pipe, light it, and feel better.

Don't use it as a crutch. Don't use it as an escape. Don't use it as a support group. Don't use it to pass the time. Don't use it to purge. Don't use it as a method to figure out how you work, inside. Don't use it as a tool to try to understand the world. Don't use it to get out of your own skin. God, you hate yourself, don't you? Don't leave yourself behind to be part of other worlds. Don't do it a little at a time, and a little at a time, like stepping up to the edge of a cliff and teetering there for years until you finally fall into the abyss and the nothingness, and the never-endingness of it all, the untamable sentences, the confounding mixtures of words on words on words, the ever-evolving. Don't use it as a flashlight on a dark path to light the way ahead. Don't use it to remind yourself what you need at the grocery store. Don't use it to remind yourself to be kind. Don't write on sticky notes and post them to your mirror. Don't remind yourself you're okay. Don't write love notes to other people. Don't write love notes to yourself. Don't send it in a letter; don't write eulogies or epitaphs, don't use it as a glue to hold yourself together.

I'm begging you: Please don't write.

Don't write. If you have the choice, don't write. Don't do it, if it hasn't been forced on you. Don't do it if you weren't, you know, held down and forced to write. Don't write unless you can't breathe without writing. Don't write unless you need to; even then, try not to write.

Don't seek solace in words. Don't try to find meaning in them. Don't let it become a compulsion. Don't let it become your life.

Don't tell your friends you write. Don't tell your relatives. They'll just think it's weird, and if they don't think it's weird, they'll think they're a critic. They'll want to give you helpful advice, as an audience, but not helpful advice as a craftsman. They'll tell you it's easy to write. They'll say they could write a book, if only they had the time, like writing isn't its own work, like it's not a labor of passion, like it's not painful, and like their time is being spent so much better than your time spent writing. They'll ask if you've been published. They'll ask if you were published in anything they've heard of. They'll say you're no J. K. Rowling. Don't write.

Don't eat, sleep, and breathe writing.

Don't write; don't get good at it, for sure, then they might WANT you to write. And, then, by God, you might slip and fall into being a writer. Don't be a writer; don't write. To be a writer you have to be an open book and then you have to be an anatomy teacher, talking about all those things that people do; you have to spend hours reasearching and studying and observing and then you have to tell other people about it all. You may as well go be a rocket scientist or a doctor or a lawyer or a business executive. You'll get paid better and you'll definitely have food in your stomach. To be a writer, you have to dissect the actions of the people around you, you have to understand and explain and shock and awe, and you have to be entertaining, when you do it, like a clown with a scalpel. To be a good writer you have to be a self-dissecting-nearly-cadaver, keeping yourself alive, by some miracle, you Frankenstein, you freak of nature, you freak of nurture. You! Barely hanging on, and teaching the world about the delicate rhythms of your insides and showing them how it feels to be mutilated and to let yourself be gut over and over, again, and showing the world that you've somehow continued, somehow survived. Don't give them hope, you liar! Don't write! Don't you dare!

Besides, there's nothing worse than somebody wanting things from you and calling your skillset a gift and saying you should share it with the world for free, as if it's not a craft. They see writing everywhere, every day, why would they think it would be anything but natural to anybody? They see it on signs and in magazines, on newspaper stands, so, if you can write, then you should just write and you should just write everything for free, because they see writing all the time, in passing, for free, and it's just always around, right? They will take advantage of you: Don't write.

Women's rights?

Men's rights?

Equal rights?

Black supremacy?

White supremacy?

Other supremacy?

Are you fighting for love?

For hate?

Are you fighting to hide the shame?

The pain?

Are you fighting others?

Yourself?

Are you fighting death?

Life?

Are you fighting the darkness?

The light?

Are you fighting because you hate?

Are you fighting because you love?

Do you hate everyone or everything?

Do you love too much?

Are you willing to die for your fight?

Are you ready to die for your fight?

Will you die by your own hand with this fight?

Are you fighting against that fate?

What are you really fighting for?

Is it really worth it?

Think about it, is it a war against others, or a war against yourself?

I lace up my shoes, metal tapping the wooden floor,

a flap and shuffle to a time-step and wings,

pull backs and draw backs (yes there's a difference) for days,

from slow to fast, and the middle pace,

the metal taps turn to hardened and worn pointe shoes,

a grand battement to a grand jeté,

pirouettes and chaînés across the stage,

and a third arabesque en Croix to finish it off,

soft, pliable shoes now encompass my feet,

giving me a confident, sassy attitude,

fouette turns into a fan kick with a great big smile,

a turn of the head and into the splits,

tennis shoes on my feet, body loose,

sharp movements fast, followed by slow,

fast, quick, move to the beat of the rap,

sliding on the ground then back up at it,

my feet are now bare, feeling the hard wooden floor,

arms heavy, but light, skim across the ground as I hang over,

a pull from an invisible force send me upwards,

swinging and jumping with emotion throughout the stage,

and pulls me back to reality,

and that I am just one of the many dancers,

dancing at the convention, competition, or studio,

imagining what it would be like to be known for dancing

Must I contrast you to a summer's day?

You are more beautiful and collected.

Tornados damage the lands within May,

Thus summer's rent is briefly infected.

At times the blazing sky torch heats too much,

And others, her yellow features clouded;

As rain from thunder storms grace us in touch,

In randomness, or poor weather shrouded;

But your forever summer must not die,

Nor lose ownership of the rain you bring,

Nor must Death boast you are caught in her sty,

When in eternity to Time you sing.

So long as humans thrive, or eyes read through,

So long as this poem lives, so, too, will you.