Everywhere

When our imaginary purpose has reached its solemn conclusion, we will flee sprinting from our station - a one-off time that provides for the uniform rows of wealth and production - and make our escape! We will dance as we leave its storied neighborhoods and the old, sad, haunting faces that seek to obstruct our exit. We will continue for what we can't yet dream of - there's nothing more intoxicating than a new scent. As we scour the bars and motels and gas stations for our new queens, lost and found in the fire of our eyes and the warmth in our guts, we will surely realize that which was true from the start and even before that. We'll see that here, just as there, the girls dance in breathless sun dresses, lying under tree tops and dueling with endlessness, making love with their ideas under the passing of another time.

Spring

When the results of this collegiate quarter are etched in finality, some - myself included - may deem my efforts lackluster, a disappointing end to an otherwise fair senior session. Indeed, if these judgments were to be waged against me I would have little in the traditional reservoir of excuses and explanations to defend myself; I wouldn't anyway. Lack of motivation...too much wine...too much pot...too many nights spent falling asleep to the voices of old comrades and the joyous, soul-crushing laughter of simplicity. It is true that I engaged in all the aforementioned with an appreciation heretofore unseen - a gusto that ripped at the threads of routine and stepped on the tatters of that nasty, nightmarish future in which none of us Exist, where our nights are shorter and our souls no longer get crushed. We possess life's bounty in the spontaneous nanoseconds of our smoke-filled mosaics, our kingdoms where loyalty, history and youth all work in unison to form the noble bloodline. For those imagined critics and my own self-doubt, I urge the steadfast remembrance of this human experience - the apex of our participation - for it is, in the end and always, the reason Why.

Little Things

There's a line spoken towards the end of "Vanilla Sky," as Tom Cruise realizes the meaning behind his life and its current manifestation: "It's the little things."

In the evidence of our long ago union, these are the things that I miss and cherish the most:

The idea that I could lay my back against the long of your legs, or take a lesson in evolution in our own front yard.

That I spent most mornings kissing you as you woke up, coffee with cream in your favorite blue mug.

That your bike cluttered our room, in our apartment - hindsight has proven my complaints to be little more than selfish immaturity.

That we had a Christmas tree, and a knife set, and, eventually, even our own pet. (I'm glad that I won out in the quest for his affection, by the way, thought I think that may have been by default).

That, for a time, M211 was my home. And that it was yours, too.

Screen Doors

"BREAKING NEWS!" Noisy flashes of bright desperation posing as journalistic coverage. From the beginning and in the end, this night is not unlike numerous others spent under the spell of smoke, and merlot, and camaraderie. In the foreground lies the usual assortment of amusement and stability - comfort in repetition and its consistency. The chatter in the background is constant, at times approaching a volume as obnoxious as it is unnecessary. Speculation drives curiosity, and the two's eternal dance provides the foundation for journalistic commentary.

Suddenly, a man - a leader - his face strong, his voice stern. As he reads from his script, I allow the gigantically small impact of his words to wash over me, falling momentarily for the trap. Just then, a savior! Prancing through the wooden fortresses and haphazard compounds of his world, enters the cat - a feline often afraid of everything, save for the other side of the screen. His final destination is none other than the lone barrier to unimaginable freedom - if only he could escape!

In the background, the somber, yet triumphant tone of the commander is being met with brash excitement and an irrational sense of victory. Perched in the foreground, the cat revels in his unyielding determination. Eyes wide and claws extended, he tries again and again to realize his truest aspiration. At no point in his quest does the cat pause to reflect on the words of the leader, nor of the blood that is now leading rallies and celebrations from coast to coast. Instead, the cat continues his futile escape effort, pricking and pawing at his eternal enemy. Alas, to little fanfare, he succumbs to the inevitability of his battle - it was, in the end, not to be.

Indeed, on this night only one enemy would experience defeat. A monster, no doubt, but a man nonetheless. And as his corpse sways quietly with the ebb and flow of the world beneath, yet another enemy maintains his survival, embodied in our festivities and the bloodlust that fuels their expansion. The trap is participation, as is the crime, and it's an offense for which we all, on this night, are guilty. Except for the cat, of course.