The hauntingly perfect symmetry of this hall. This hall that was once newly painted but is now whitewashed and stark. From the banisters to the faded paneling that gives only an inkling that it may have been colored blue in a past life. Its weakness is its strongest feature.
This hall that is four stories off the ground and leaves you wondering how you got there and didn’t even notice. This hall that you cannot jump out of, dig out of, or walk away from. This hall that has captured you – no – that you’ve some how captured yourself in. Slowly and unknowingly.
Above float fluorescent dome lights that have the elegance of a forgotten song. Its face value appears welcoming but its remembrance, bleak.
This hall stretches to inconceivable lengths. Then, it stretches some more. And more. And more. That window at the end never seems to get any closer. Intermittently along the ceiling are glowing onyx “exit signs” – similar to those you would use in case of fire. But they give false hope. For under those signs, lies absolutely nothing.
But this hall. This hall may not be so bad. To be trapped. At least you can’t get hurt.
You are a victim to your own emotional incapacitance.
Masochistic and comforting.
A beautiful torture.
Mommy said Daddy’s far away.
Mommy said it’ll be ok.
She’s crying. Maybe she hurt her elbow.
She should kiss it and make it better; her kisses make me grow.
Daddy’s been gone a while,
I think Mommy needs Daddy’s smile.
Mommy kneels on the floor and hugs me,
Mommy sounds like she needs help breathing.
Mommy picks me up and I can fly,
I laugh, she continues to cry.
She tells me I’m going on a trip,
I hold onto her with an excited grip.
I spy planes in the sky.
The lady at the desk as funny hair,
She takes my hand and tells me we’re going up in the air.
Mommy’s still crying,
Her elbow must still be dying.
I see the plane, I see the plane!
Mommy hugs me and tells me to be good for Daddy.
Mommy walks away,
I yell for her
I yell a lot.
The weird haired lady holds me.
She’s says I’m going to live with my daddy.
Through this window,
I can’t find my mom.
Where did she go?
Mommy, where did you go?
The grass and hills begin to move. They slide by, passing my oblong double-pane window. Their speed is correlated with the intensity of the whirring of the engine.
Strangely, I find it comforting. Nostalgic. As we trade the earth below us for the chilling atmosphere above; I feel so relaxed. I reminisce in all the places a machine such as this has taken me. Part of me is surprised by how at home it feels, the other part of me says “well, of course.” To be in transit. To be unstationary.
From all the schools I’ve gone to. From all the hotels, hostels, homes, and dorms I’ve slept in. From all the planes and buses and car rides I’ve taken. It’s more than just travel. It’s a lifestyle.
I look out my window again and I feel free. Nomadic. Like a gypsy. Always changing from one year to the next.
Soon I’ll be home home. I’ll unpack, I’ll settle in. But the itch is still there and I will still yearn for the road. I know this to be true.
But for now, I’ll pack it up and move it in. Do my best and meet new friends. Have a blast but keep working hard. And soon enough, that God-given wanderlust will take me away, and next time, maybe some where far.
She knows a secret. A penetrating secret. It’s hers – and it’s terrifyingly precious.
She slams into the ground, blood dripping from her nose. It’s fine. It’s custom. She just pushes herself up again.
Without turning around she throws him a glare. Softly pursed lips. Tension in her stride as she begins to walk away.
He grabs her wrist. A throw of the fist. And she kisses the earth once more.
In my dream I imagine that toy. You know, the one with all the silver pins. The thing you can push your face into and it will leave the shape. I dream of that. It’s reset and flat, but then hills start to appear, like some one pressed their knee into it or the palm of their hand. Then more shapes emerge on top of them. Perhaps the nose of a battleship, fingers, or pencils.
I open my eyes. The shape of the pins still in my mind. I awake, and instead of pins, I see the Andes. The glorious Andes.
I see them stretch as their crags reach to the sky, sprinkled with snow, to greet the morning rays of the sunrise. They tremble with excitement as the dance with the light, throwing colors about like it’s the final days of Holi; colors of purple, pink, and orange against the celestial blue sky.