Untitled - Summer 2004

Inspiration hits everyone in different ways. Sometimes what can inspire a person does not even need to pertain directly to the product of the inspiration. Poets do not necessarily write about their muse, but the muse simply arouses the poetry from within.

Over a family vacation in the summer of 2004, I listened to Evanescence's "My Immortal" and a whole story erupted in my mind. The plot was inspired by the musical composicion of the song, not necessarily its words. I envisaged the character so deeply, that I almost began to cry as I wrote the words on the page.

I have revised the piece over the years, but I do not doubt that this is not the final copy. Enjoy and leave a comment. If you would wish to listen to the song as you read, copy "http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxQrPXPSVhQ" into another window to have the YouTube music video playing in the background.

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Untitled – Summer 2004

Laramie held Ryan in her arms. His limp body weighed her down as she sank to her knees in grief. She stared into his dark, mysterious eyes as the tears from her own crystal eyes splashed upon his pale face. As he gasped for breath, she scanned his wound. It looked like it penetrated deep into his chest.

Her soft fingers caressed Ryan’s drained and dirty face. “I’m with you. It is okay. We’re going to make it,” Laramie said as she thought the very opposite.

A darkness loomed in her heart that had been instilled from the years of endless nightmares. As her mind flashed to the recurring nightmare, she realized she was now living the nightmare she had always struggled with. The passage of woods, the pressing fear, the sound of impending danger; all these abstract remembrances flowed back into her mind and flooded all of the desperate thoughts of survival, which drowned her hope.

Ryan’s gasp of consciousness and the sound of the advancing attackers’ feet caught her attention again. She gazed into his tearing eyes as he struggled to raise his hand around her neck. Laramie’s crying turned to wretched gasps and she lowered her head next to his. From the corner of her eye she saw the attackers forming a circle around Ryan and her.

Ryan cared not for the surroundings but focused all his labor on whispering the words “I love you” into her ear. He gave the devotion of his heart the faintest kiss upon her ear. Ryan’s head then slumped back against Laramie’s arm.

Laramie’s heart lurched in her chest as she let out one sob of agony as she realized her nightmare was coming true. Now it was her time to die. She wanted to lie down and die beside her love. As she reached for Ryan’s sword that lay on the other side, something whispered in the back of her head, “This is not your destiny.” Her hand paused at the handle of her self inflicted death as a surge of sadness, anger, and strength tingled through her body. Her ring glinted in an unseen light.

Laramie’s tears continued to fall as she grasped the sword and instead of plunging it into her own heart, she rose defiantly in the center of the circle. Laramie raised the sword to the axis of her face and pierced each of the attackers’ souls with the power in her eyes. She yelled as she lunged at the nearest knight and attacked him. With unknown skill, she ably fought and killed each of the knights.

As they swung their swords, she would block each swipe before she would even know it. As her fighting continued, she glanced back to see a strange beast dragging Ryan’s body away.

The distraction kept her from blocking the next blow and it grazed across her back. She yelped with pain and came back to her senses. The anger flared in her eyes as she recognized the attacker who delivered Ryan’s fatal blow. A stare down lasted for a moment in reality, but held the strength of eternity. With a smirk of pride of his face, the last attacker readied his sword and started upon her. Laramie’s smoldering rage unleashed its fullest force upon the throat of the final combatant. The slice severed his head from his neck.

Laramie stopped dead upon the body’s spastic descend to the ground. She looked around at all the bodies strewn around her and she glanced down at her bloodied clothes. Scarlet beads of blood dripped from the white lace.

Abruptly, all her strength drained from her body and out her fingers. Ryan’s sword dropped from her hands and she fell onto her previous spot sobbing from anguish, pain, and fatigue; too tired to even clutch her own body. With a sharp pain against the back of her head, Laramie fell unconscious.

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Flashes of Fall

Autumn Colors

California with a golden hue
True gold comes only one season a year

Relaxation amid the hustle of class

Warm swirls of sunlight
But cool, yet fragrant winds blow the
traces of stale summer away

Falling leaves and needles cross the vision
Shedding the worries of the past year

Midday amber panes of light across the floor

Rushes of wind fill

the airwaves

of sound

Solid pines stand to wait for winter

Fall; a time to relax, renew, and retrospect

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Too Much of a Good Thing

Recently, a friend told me about how heavy her backpack weighed. As we sat down in commons to rest between classes, she pulled out her plethora of provisions per idem: one textbook, a laptop, two notebooks, one novel, a wallet, a cell phone, a pack of pencils and pens, and a Bible. All of these materials matter for the completion of her day.

She noted that her back had been hurting her lately though. Although I viewed all of the items and assessed their necessity in my own mind, I asked her if each was indeed vital for that day.

She responded, “All of these things are good things. I just have too many good things.”

Inspiration hit me at that moment and I took a small amount of time to examine my own life, which has recently run me ragged. Indeed, I fill my life with “good things,” but perhaps I do not need all of these things. In further thought, I throw out two clichés, probably much to the chagrin of AJ:

“Acceptance of the good, prevents us from achieving the best.”

and

“Quality versus quantity.”

Letting our lives fill up with good things, let alone the bad things, without evaluating the true quality or necessity of each involvement prevents us from recognizing the best for our lives. As such, take time periodically to survey the things of your life. Unpack your backpack called life. Examine its contents. Take out a few things and store them for later, maybe even never. Remember that one uses a backpack to hold multiple things, but it has limits.

Just as our daily schedules change from day to day, so also, our lives shall develop and change over the course of our allotted time. Look ahead and plan for your next day, but save that extra space for the time when you need it.

The question is: can I follow my own advice?

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Response to "The Cistern - October 2005": A Year Advanced

Through my posting of a piece which I wrote last year, I see how this period of life changed my outlook on and my responses to uncertainty. This year has been a slow climb up that ladder with many slips and slides down a few rungs, but it gladdens me to notice that I have continued to re-hoist myself up and persist in my climb. One event comprises not the whole event as I perceived it to last year, but each rung denotes a unique challenge of uncertainty. All in all, I have made tremendous progress through this year. The circle of hope beckons me louder than the echoing of dark denial. This ladder shall most likely take years to climb, but with the perpetual progress, maybe the light will not blind me when I reach the top.

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The Cistern – October 2005

Dampness presses on my entire body. I feel the dank, muddy, curved walls chill my back as I lean against them. Darkness envelops my being. So dark that I breathe chilled darkness.

Tears slide crookedly down my muddied face. My voice cracks between the reserved sobs.

I will not let myself cry.

As I sit in the foul, stagnant water fingering the rope which hangs beside me, I glance up and see the circle of light, my only source of hope. But this hope tastes bittersweet. If I know the truth, it could be good or bad. The hope inspires me to lift myself up, though I slip violently in the slime. I grasp both hands on the rope ladder and begin to ascend.

As I approach the top, I can begin to see the form of a figure. Panic suddenly grips my heart harder than my grasp upon the life-giving rope. Desperation hits and I let go of the rope, falling to a splash on the floor. My climb was not hard, but the prospect of denial instilled such fear that I gave up, deciding to live in denial.

Anger whells up from deep in my heart. Anger at myself, at all. I stand and splash and kick and SCREAM at the top of my lungs. My fists swell from pounding on the walls of my self prison. I gaze once again at the circle of light. The same hope begins to grow again, but I deny it. I shake it out of my body.

I don’t deserve hope. It won’t work out anyways. I will always lose.

Anger and tears return and my soul begins to weaken. I tire of the ups and downs. My body cries with pain, begging to get out of the wretched darkness of self pity.

Though the glimmers from above reach down to my solitude, I hide from their light. One dances across an inscription. I lean over to read it.

“Suffering produces perseverance, perseverance character, and character, hope.”

Hope? I scoff. Hope only led to hurt in the past. Hurt that kept returning as hope shattered.

I begin to evade the glimmers as they bounce around. One glimmer catches me on the hand and I get my first look in ages at the condition of my hands. The nails are jagged, encrusted with dirt and blood from previous attempts of scaling the wall. The glimmer of light then jumps to my face and I fell the warmth of sunlight upon my tight, chapped skin. I breathe warm air, filling my lungs with forgotten vitality. Then as spontaneous as it came, it leaves.

My mind toys with the idea of pursuing it up the shaft. A deep absence and vacuum fills the confinement and my body shivers. The cold air turns to frigid ice, freezing my lungs with each necessary breath. My muscles tighten and cramp and I fold into the fetal position rocking in my pain. The muddy water crystallizes on my ripped clothes, further torturing me.

Then a decision breaks through the ice of denial in my mind. I am breaking the habit of denial and doubt now! I stand up and grab the rope. Each rung that I pull myself to pains my weak muscles. But I press on.

It begins to take longer to raise myself to the next rung as my endurance lags. But I decide to continue. I left doubt in the water on the floor.

As I continue upwards, the temperature increases. I pause and look up. The small circle has grown into an enormous opening filled with bright light. I decide on my words and reactions and continue to climb.

My hand then touches something soft. It feels like grass. My heart leaps, almost pulling my body up with it into the blinding light.

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