A Rolling Regret

I roll over, spitting up salt water on the soft white sandy shore, as the rolling waves violently thrust me forward. I grasp a clump of sand and hoist myself further up into the shore so that my entire body is out of the water. Water is still choking me and coming up through my throat, and in a quick attempt to rid of it, I begin to cough violently. I am somewhat relieved of the salt water down my throat, and I roll over so that my back is on the sand, and stare at the sky. It isn't the first time I've come here. In fact, I've come here all too often, and every time for the same, undying reason I can never get rid of. And still, on the tiny island in the middle of the ocean, with its white sandy beach and tall palm trees, and a cloud to always cover the brutal sun, I can still feel the pain tugging at my chest, like a restless irritation that can not go away. And yet, I can not remember what is was that I was trying to get away from. I can only feel the compression in my heart that reminds me something was there.

Still, I try to dismiss the pain. I rise to my feet and limp my way under a palm tree, then sit back down, my tired legs sprawled out in front of me, and my head lazily tilted to a side so that my chin rests on my shoulder. With small forlorn eyes, I stare at the waves, how they come and go so hurriedly, the water excitedly roaring towards the shore, suddenly to burst in a wild explosion of white and recede as slower and more painfully than it came. Recede with regret, with second thoughts. Insecurities that can never be won back or fought for, or changed. It recedes reluctantly, but watches the next wave come and try again, watching, hoping, that maybe that next wave will make it. Perhaps the next wave will stay, as waves should. But the last wave watches wearily as the wave after it recedes. Reluctantly. Slowly. Painfully. And so the first wave, after watching the one after it fail, and the one after that fail, turns away, falling back into the ocean and dying, never to know what could have happened, and forever left to wonder.

Rubbing my eyes with my pruned fingers, my dry throat clenches and a tear falls down my cheek. I remember why I'm here. It's a long story, and not a pleasant one. It's a story of regret. Of lost dreams. And this place I am in, it's where they all end up in. All of the lost dreams of the world, all of the lonely souls whose hearts clench with sorrow or pain, and who recede and die without ever making their mark. They all end up in the ocean. Except for me. The ocean spat me up, and here I am again, sitting on the shore, good as new with youth in my face, watching dreams fall before my eyes. And I wonder why it has given me another chance. I know, however, this is not the first chance I've been given. I remember this place, vaguely, as one remembers small snippets of long ago childhood memories. A foot jumping on a rain puddle, water splashing up into the air; the red plaid table cloth of an old picnic blanket; or the young eyes of a lost love, wandering hopelessly for the one who has so boldly hurt you.

Stumbling, I rise to my feet and stare out at the cloudy sky before me. So much distance, so much horizon, so far to go. I can not waste my time.

In the Middle of Freedom

I am standing on the surface of a lake, the cool water chilling the bottoms of my feet, my eyes observant as to my surroundings. As I survey the area around the lake, I lay eyes upon a tree with no leaves. I can not see well enough, and I can not tell whether the tree is dead or dying. However, this tree is in the middle of the lake, away from the edges of the shore, where thick brush and life grow; the greenest cacti blossoming with its bright juicy summer fruit, and tall trees heavily supplied with numerous healthy branches and laden with simple yellow flowers. All along the shore of the lake, these gorgeous walls of green grow plentifully, its colors so bright that they reflect like carnival lights upon the water's edge. And yet, there is the simple, two branched tree alone in the middle of the lake, so thin and so barren that it only stands as a mere silhouette in the presence of the setting sun behind it.

My heart drops with pity for the lonely tree, out in the middle of nothing but the vast body of water which surrounds it; bearing nothing beautiful to show off, nothing but the mere bark which keeps it standing once all hint of decoration is violently stripped off. Silently, I make my way towards the tree, each step I take sending ripples throughout the water. Once I reach the tree, I extend my hand out and feel its bark. It is smooth, like a polished kitchen counter, and my hand runs across it quickly, with no struggles or pain. This tree is not dying, and yet, it is not quite alive. Suddenly, it all begins to make sense inside of my brain.

I feel ashamed to have ever pitied the tree as the smooth bark begins to tell its story. For on the shore, the tree was trapped, crowded, unable to move and feel the world and what it meant to everything that lived there. And though it was only on the shore that the beautiful trees lived, filled with blossoming flowers and fruit and the greenest, richest leaves on their branches, this tree had sacrificed all of it so that it may be free. And nobody ever admires that tree. Nobody ever comes to that tree and picks a fruit off its branches. Nobody ever goes to that tree and sits under it for shade, or takes pictures next to it. Nobody ties a swing to the branches of that tree, and nobody gives up their time to climb it. The world never even notices that the tree in the middle of the water is there alone, and still standing, and still hanging on to the small ties of life it has left so that it may experience its freedom. But to this tree, none of it really matters. None of that is important.

And so, I stand next to the tree, and sink down into the lake water, just deep enough so that my toes can touch the bottom and my nose is still above the surface. I stand there, and as I stand there, with the soft ripples of the water gently pulling my body this way and that, and the sun setting right before my eyes, I feel at peace. And nothing else in the world matters anymore when I am standing there in the water, because in this place, right next to this tree as wise as the mountains which tower behind it, I am free.

Porch Step

I'm sitting on a porch step, outside an old house with a sagging roof top. The shingles, now a faded caramel brown, droop down at the middle like the unbalanced layers of a chocolate cake. The door, a faded and cracked rectangle of wood, with only scattered spots of paint, is barely hanging from the rusty shingles. The windows hold only bits and pieces of glass in them, and the porch step in which I sit on, is old and worn out cement. I've been here before, a lot of times. It is my home, only this is not the way it was before. This place is old, weary, soundless except for the creaking floorboards and loose shingles. Leaning against the wall is a bicycle. My bicycle. The white one with green flowers. Only this bicycle is rusted and scratched and beat up. What is this place? What has happened to it, to all I've known?

I begin to walk down the sidewalk, the one I've walked down for the past years of my life. The past years. That's it! I'm in the future. This is my neighborhood in the future, only I haven't aged. I walk by my neighbor's house. Theirs is old and worn out as well. I ring the doorbell, but nobody answers, so I walk in. The entire house is dusty, unkempt, and faded. I walk to their kitchen, where I ate sandwiches and punch with a dear friend of mine for many summers gone by. Where is everybody? Where is her mother, with her blond hair and white smile? Or her brother, a frisky little thing, always seeking play? They are all gone.

I make my way up their stairs to my friend's room. The room is bare except for an aged mahogany chair, a cracked window, and a frame. The frame holds a paper inside- a certificate. A doctor's certificate. She became a doctor, just like she always wanted to. I smile. I remember her will, her dream to save lives, to do something useful with her own. That is why she is gone. She became a doctor. But then- why I am I still here? What happened to my dream?

Terrified, I run out of the house and go to the next one. No one is there, but a lawyer's certificate hangs on the wall. That person wanted to be an attorney, and so they left to become one. I run out of that house as well, and on to the next. This time, not a certificate, but a cowboy hat. Little Georgie, he always wanted to be a cowboy; to leave the suburbs and move to the wild west. I run out and move to the next. A space suit. Tommy always wanted to go to space. Dreams, dreams, dreams, nothing but dreams, and all of these dreams, now reality. That is why nobody is here. But, why am I here? Have my dreams not come true? What ever happened to my dreams of becoming an actress, of being a performer on Broadway? How I'd always told myself, I will pursue this dream, and I will not die until I've reached it. The lust for achievement that had always ran through my veins, my very blood. I'd always said, if anyone here is to achieve the unimaginable, it would be me! And yet, here I am, standing all alone in this abandoned neighborhood, running through the empty sidewalks, trying to find the reason for my being here, and worst of all, my being here alone.

I run back to my house, where I began, and sit on the porch again, rocking back and forth. I, who am still full of ideas, full of dreams that never came true, stuck in this- this wasteland of broken dreams. Destiny, laughing at me like a joke. Laughing at my dreams, laughing at reality. Perhaps, if I sit here and dream away, dream back into reality, I'll go back to where I came from. I'll get away from this nightmare, this horror. This mere existence of myself without a name to display to humanity, without a cause to stand up for. But before I know it, I am disappearing, slowly disappearing on these steps. Wait! I call aloud. Wait! I am not ready yet! There is so much I need to do! So much I need to show! To learn and to examine and to create! This can't be true. This won't be true. I can't let it be true. And please, take this from me, do not let this be true for you.

To Dance...

I'm running as fast as I can, darkness and winds enveloping me. I can't fly away, and if I could, it wouldn't matter because the sky is dark as well. Everything is dark, like black ink spilled upon a colorful painting, its dullness sinking through the canvas, working its way in through all the fibers. As I keep running, the ink keeps moving, keeps sinking, keeps becoming one with the painting. I suddenly realize that I am the pen, and I am running the ink across the paper.

Fillled to the brim with my endless fears; fear of wind, fear of darkness, fear of uncertainty, I force myself to stop running. As soon as I stop moving, everything freezes. The ink stops in its tracks, the winds can no longer be heard, and the page is only halfway darkened. There is still light; still color. Still hope. I must make myself calm down, I have to breathe. Carefully, slowly, I sit down and cross my legs, closing my eyes and breathing.

I try to remember a place where there was light. A place where there was a lot of light, and I was happy. I realize light does not come on its own, but perhaps if my mind is solid enough, and my will strong enough, a memory or emotion can make light a reality.

Suddenly, I see myself spinning upon a stage, gracefully, smoothly, gliding across the surface. My heart is giddy with joy and pride as I perform every step, every jump perfectly as planned. A pink light appears, bathing me in its romantic glow, and suddenly, as if on cue, the wind comes into the picture. I should be frightened, I think to myself. The wind is large and tall and powerful. It can push me to the floor and rip me to shreds and ruin my dance. But I'm not scared as I expect myself to be, for I don't anticipate its strength. I simply let the wind fly as it does, over me, under me, and around me. It gently caresses the colorful sash hanging from my sleeves and carries the tips of my toes far across the stage to unknown corners of the universe.

But how can this be? This is not the wind I knew once before. The howling lost soul that comes to me every night, that begs for something I can not give. This is not the vicious crowd of ignorance and despair that comes to me with its envy and insecurity and desperately tries to push me down. This is something different, a calmed wind that dances with me, moves with me, bringing upon new warm glows and different variations of color I've never even seen before.

As soon as the dance is the over, lights pop up everywhere and small children cheer happily, applauding the performance. I've shown the wind where the light is, how to get to it. That's all it ever wanted. A place to dance freely upon a lit stage that shines like a star in the sky. Perhaps... there really is a sailor after all.

When the Darkness is Lit

I'm near a river, watching the clear water flow endlessly to one direction. The sky is bright and cloudless, the grass as green as green can get. I'm slightly confused. I'm never in a place like this, not in the dark depths of a sleepless night. And so many nights I've had, where I lie awake in a dark place, frightened, confused, longing to see some light, some happiness, some reassuring sign that I'll soon go to sleep and dream a pleasant reality. In those times, I feel as though if I saw what I am seeing now, everything would be better, and I could find laughter and joy in light. But now that I am there, now that I've found what I look for on so many insomniatic nights of mine, I do not find myself happy. I don't understand. I don't understand at all.

I glance beside me and see a flower, slowly wilting, slowly shriveling up. I remember the darkness, the confusion, the desperate howling winds begging for a home, waters trying to push me down, the melancholy entrapments of a forlorn saxophone. They all come back to me in a flash. It doesn't matter whether I am unhappy or not, I must keep this flower alive. I must keep the light going. I mustn't let the darkness take over once more.

I make my way to the river and cup my hands to get some, but the water will not stay in my hands. I grab another handful of water, but it keeps slipping through my fingers. It won't stay. The flower is quickly dying, it is quickly turning black. Soon, the sky turns from blue to a melancholy gray, the water turns pitch black, and the grass itself disappears. I fall down to my knees, torn in two, as the everything goes, swiftly, and just beyond my reach. Just above my fingertips. I can never get it back, and just as I begin to cry, I hear the roaring of the winds, far away.

No. They are coming again, the howling winds, the ghosts of the people, the crowding people, the screaming desperate souls of the lowly coming to haunt me once again. Coming to seek, coming to ask. I gather myself up and get to my feet. I begin to run; run as fast as I can. I don't know anything, and there's nothing I can do to help. I run, I try to fly as I have once before, but I can no longer run that fast. They are coming, and when they do, they will devour me, swallow me whole.

Golden Saxophone

I'm sitting isolated in a dark pitch black space. I can not see anything, but I can feel a distant sense of despair flowing around the space, and right through me. I can not feel myself, it is as if I am not even there. I'm just a memory, a lost hope, a ghost with every purpose in the world, and no purpose at all.

From one end of the dark, a lonesome saxophone begins to play. A lagging melody, pushing its way on through, creating a path of its own through the darkness. The music develops a dark red color, like a cloud, or a puff of smoke, careful not to blend once more with the eerie darkness. The yearning sounds cry for help, as they spiral and move about the space, only further tangling

themselves, only pushing further into the sorrowful confusion.

Here, here is where the broken dreams lie, abused and tormented in the face of reality. Here is where they fall flat and disappear. Blend. I look at myself, the space now slightly illuminated by the dark red cloud. I realize, I'm not there at all. There are no hands, no feet, no body. I am disappearing too, away into the darkness.

I begin to move. I can not tell where I am going, whether I'm going forward or back, up or down, and gravity is nonexistent. I simply know I am moving, moving quickly, for there must be a way to keep from disappearing. Suddenly, I see something shining. It is golden in color, and in the darkness, it shines like a rising sun, adorned by the red and orange tints of the sky around it. I run to it and stand before it.

It is a saxophone, laying plainly on the floor, but golden all the same. I pick it up and feel it's gentle curves, the holes and the unused mouth piece. As I hold the saxophone in my hands, the slow moving red cloud from the other saxophone's crying tones surround me. I've never played a saxophone before, and I don't think I know how, but I put the mouthpiece to my lips anyway.

I begin to play the instrument, as a fine rush of emotion runs through my body, my breath, and my fingertips. Emotion becomes a note, a note becomes music. Music becomes a song and a song becomes light. And light... Light is a dream that lives.

Inharmoniously

I lay in my bed, wondering why is it, I can not write? Tonight nor for the past few days. Perhaps of is because I am far from home. From the familiar surroundings of my rotating white chair, the chipped computer desk, the dusty keyboard. And thoughts, so many thoughts, pass through my head, but I can not write them down. They don't sound the way I want them too. So if anyone is actually reading this, please realize I am going through temporary writer's block.

But, I know I want to get there. I hope you understand what I mean by that. And there is such an empty longing feeling in my chest that screams out liberty. That screams out confidence and hope. And if I never get there, I shall die inharmoniously with myself.