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.

Atop The Pole

I am standing atop a long pole, old now, and caked in the red aftermath of inevitable oxidation, or rust. There are no signs as to where it comes from, or how far down it digs into the earth, but the pole is tall, nonetheless, reaching high above the line of clouds that adorn the sky ever so scarcely. Below the pole lies a large body of water stretching endlessly out into the distance to beyond the orange horizon. The water is clear as daylight, and I can see right through. I can see jagged stones at the bottom of the water, the stones dark as a pitch black night sky. The body of water itself, however, looks beautiful with the aid of the sun, which it luxuriously uses to its benefit.

I stand on the very point of the pole, my feet flat and parallel, my arms carefully outstretched evenly, and my face determined and looking upward as the pole keeps rising, and I along with it. The pole seems to rise with each passing second, and I only rise higher and higher above the clear ocean where the jagged rocks seem to all aim towards me, ready to strike if I should lose my balance.

I am in no position, however to lose my balance. I have been doing this forever. Always, standing on the pole, sometimes on two feet, sometimes on one, and when my feet tired, I have even done handstands on this pole. I know this pole through and through, its weaknesses and strengths. I barely just came here, and yet I've been doing this forever.

Suddenly, the body of water stirs. Startled, I look down at the water, tiny ripples now slowly developing across the once immobile sea. The pole shakes for a fraction of a second, for a fraction of a millimeter, but I can feel it all around me. I carefully shift my position to become more balanced. The water stirs again; this time more of a sudden jolt. My body thrusts forward slightly, but my feet stay just balanced enough to keep me atop the pole.

I look at the water again. Ripples now cover the sea everywhere I look. I can still see the jagged rocks waiting at the bottom with hungry anticipation for me to lose my balance. To fall. Those rocks would love to see me fall; would love to ruin me with their sharp teeth and carnivorous ways. For try though they might, the rocks will never be atop the pole like me. They will always remain underwater. And so, they try to move the water, to shake the pole, to tip me over.

But I will not budge. And neither will this pole at the end of my feet. I have been doing this forever.

If Only For A While...

The waves thrash violently upon my small sailboat, along with the ferocious wind which slaps at my sails like a drum. Nervously, I stare at my sails as they are mocked and bent endlessly by the wind. "One of them is sure to tear," I think to myself, a nervous wave of anxiety making its way to my stomach. My sweaty fingers clutch to the small lamp in my hand, like a small child hangs on to a stuffed animal in fear. The dim light makes hardly a difference compared to the pitch black sky which swallows everything in its path, whole. But I hold on to it anyway. It is my only source of comfort.

Here in this lost world I've found myself at, the sky is black, the waters are black, and the ice cold winds howl like misplaced souls begging for a way out. Every way I turn, a new force of wind pounds at my face, running through my hair, tearing away at my conscience. "We are here," they seem to say. "Lead us where the sun shines."

Oh I remember that place. That lovely place somewhere far away, where grassy hills rolled peacefully across sun filled lands. Where ground was solid and you could walk a mile in the sunrise while birds sang wonderful songs around anyone who cared to listen. But here, here there are no hills or solid ground, or grass, or light. That is why the lost souls look to me for help. I carry light in my hand. "She has light, she must know the way out," They think. But I know nothing.

Desperation floods my entire body as I look for a way out. I look for some other source of light, something that could save my pride as a sailor. But there is nothing. Nothing but my boat and pitch black water. The waves grow larger, rocking my small boat violently. I grip on to the sides of the boat in an attempt not to fall off, but my fingers only slip from the moisture of the walls. Terrified, I look for something to hold on to as the boat thrashes wildly in the water. I grab onto the thin wooden mast. It cracks with the pressure of my body. The mast, along with the weak sails fall down. The boat flips over.

Panicking and sputtering with the sea water at my lips, I grab hold of the boat which is now completely reversed. My lamp, surprisingly, is still lit as I grab it in my hand. I soon find myself slipping. The bottom of the boat is slick. I fall. The lamp hits the water and the light goes out. I am drowning in the darkness of the water, the wind angrily attempting to tear my body into pieces. I am slipping further under the surface...

Maybe... Maybe I'm just one of them... I'm just a howling lost soul, looking for a way out just like they are. Perhaps I never was a good sailor. Perhaps I wasn't really a sailor at all. But a stroke of wind trying to disguise my helplessness with pride. But it isn't true. There is no door. There is no way out. There is no sailor. And light only appears in dreams. But... for a while... maybe the winds can learn to belong in that place. And maybe the sailor can learn to belong with the wind. If only for a while...