Rooftops

I’ve always found them magical. I mean, most of our lives we implement ourselves into the most perplexing of entanglements, where everyone inside thinks they’re doing the right thing, when they’re all tangling the entanglement much more than it had already been entangled. Everyone in the entanglement either puts the blame on themselves or on anyone else, when the blame is sourced in the entanglement itself. And, in this entanglement, we’re all caught up in the yelling, and the screaming, and the bad-mouthing, and other disturbing whatnots. Everything is just so loud, and it’s like the universe is sinking in, gathering its weight on our shoulders, and expecting our paper bones to be able to carry its rocks.

So sometimes, sometimes we need to breathe. To just let go for a couple of seconds—a couple of minor seconds, really—and smile, so that’s when I found rooftops. You see, when you’re on a rooftop, the world suddenly silences itself, as if you are finally the visitor, and it is the audience—The world suddenly respects you. It stops yelling, and screaming. You look down on all these houses—you’re so high up. You look at them and it’s like the world expanded again. All of that noise compressed itself into those little houses, and kept itself there.

The rooftop is where the stars gather to remind you of just how great you are, how vast the world is, and how you’ll get through. It’s when the moon reminds you of life, and the wind tells you: You’re still here.

The rooftop is where we find our freedom. It’s where we look up and realize that the sky’s yet to fall. 

The Great Light

All my younger cousins, and older cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and second cousins gathered around whoever bared the match that ignited the greatness that are fireworks, it was sort of weird, like being a bundle of flies fascinated by nothing but The Great Light. So, we all gathered around the bearer, and we watched. We watched him light The Gray Cylinder, and stand at bay. We all stared at that little dark thing and waited.

It all started with a simple line of smoke, then the sizzle of a spark; the indication—the alarm that alerted us all, the messenger that called—that greatness has almost arrived. Seconds later, sparks turned into a line of wonder and The Gray Cylinder erupted as it reached the inevitable, and it burst into The Great Light. The brightest stars bowed to their audience, and were soon devoured by the mouth of nature. It was beautiful. We’d all sit in silence, staring at silence.

And it’s this thing with fireworks that allowed my naïve 16-year-old-brain to truly dwell into The World of Philosophy. You see, when you look at that sudden outburst of stars, everything inside of you and around you are silenced because what you’re currently witnessing is nothing less than beautiful. Every other thing troubling you, every other person throwing rocks your way, over other nightmare you’ve had, just… dissolves. Your mind is immersed into the wonder sourced in The Great Light.

We experience The Great Light everyday, as well. You see, I’ve hit rock bottom, and I’ve been shot to kingdom come thousand of times, and even as I hid in the pit of my despair, there was always that silent line of smoke. Then there was a spark. And then there was The Great Light. The Great Light didn’t necessarily fix any of my problems, but it had given me what I thought I had lost. It gave me hope.

It’s today that I thought about all this. My cousins and I were playing around with water balloons, (I’m sixteen.) we then had to gather whatever was left of our destroyed balloons to clear up their lawn. I then decided to grab a pile of wet torn up pieces of dirty balloon (I’m sixteen), and rub it on my cousin’s cheek (I’m sixteen.). She was a natural avenger, though. So she grabbed a pile of wet-torn-up-dirty-pieces-of-whatever-was-left-of-our-balloons and she chased me around with it. I laughed as I ran. I laughed so hard, running was difficult, and she was laughing too.  So then I gave in, and she had her turn. I was still laughing, and she was still laughing, because, right then and there all that mattered was the moment. Everything else just vanished away. That was The Great Light.

I guess that’s what happiness is to me. Fleeting moments of utter joy, where all the demons of the world bury themselves for your sake, so that you could have a piece of The Great Light.

The point is, we’ll always be fighting and arguing and jumping over obstacles and pushing boundaries away and crying and sobbing and hitting rock bottom, but as long as that split of a second, fleeting yet everlasting moment of happiness somehow manages to ignite The Great Light, then everything’s going to be okay.

Plus, you can’t have The Great Light without The Gray Cylinder.

Schedule your Falter

Note: I've posted this before, but I removed it instantly. It was too personal. I mean, it still is. But, in an exaggerated form. Even though I have thought about suicide before, I'm not suicidal, and I've never been diagnosed with depression, or any other instability along its lines. I, although, have always felt worthless, always a little less than everyone else, and lately that's kind of what my posts've been revolving around, because when I write, I write from my core. My core, at the moment, is a black hole. Slightly tormenting, but I'm okay. I don't write for sympathy, and I'm not trying to impose any sort of idea. This is a piece that is simply from my black hole, and I only write to be free. To put myself out there, because I am no longer in fear of what other people may think of how I feel. I'm exhausted, and I feel like crap sometimes, because I'm human and humans do.
But, lets not get ahead of ourselves. This is a schedule from my black hole (Again, not trying to send any sort of message. These are thoughts. Ideas.):

Six thirty AM.

Walk into kitchen.

Inhale ridicule, dash of terror, and a hint of cinnamon.

Six forty AM.

Walk to school.

Gather requirements necessary to suffer the heart burners, the unforgivable comments, the defining remarks, and the dying grades.

Two PM.

A gathering.

Wear a dress of blame, shoes of worthlessness.

Dress the tables with false claims, decorate them with demeaning jokes, and make sure those knives cut deeply. Would be humiliating to hand our guests old knives now, wouldn’t it? 

Smile.

Laugh.

Tear apart.

Fall down.

Lower.

Deeper.

Touched the ground?

Go beneath it.

Four PM.

Lay on bed.

Four PM:

Ready your razors.

Four thirty PM: NOTE: You are as worthless as the ice on the curb, as tiring as a dictator that refuses death, and you are less, smaller, slighter.

Five PM: Falter. Cut.

Untitled

I made a void.

I collected my miseries.

I collected my pain.

I collected my melancholy.

And I threw it away.

I made a void.

I brushed away the dirt.

I brushed away the sand.

I brushed away the dust.

And it all flew away.

When I realized,

My golden tongue was not a gold,

Sold by a seller who sells to the dying.

I realized my golden tongue,

Did not posses enchantments,

Nor did it posses charms,

Nor did it posses spells.

I am a mere child, who enjoys the union,

Of the pen and the page.

I am a mere child, and I do apologize,

For not being endowed,

With the power of the magician,

Who leaves his audience,

With a little less air.

To further elucidate:

I am sonnet 29, by the great Shakespeare,

Without the turn,

Or the great.