Sad Truth

Eighty years. That's all I have left. Eighty short years to make a difference, to fulfill my purpose. At times it seems an hourglass, others, endless sand to dig my feet into, to run on and be free.
The hourglass could tip at any moment, the sand disappear from beneath my feet; this I know. That is why I continue to run, why I ignore the fear and let
                        life
                           be.

The dresser stands in the middle of the room
It's hundreds of drawers
Open in full bloom
Filled with words, pictures of places and faces
Some scattered with sorrow and others stacked in simplicity

A hand opens the door
Throwing it aside
They are unaware of the expanse
The darkness they stand before
And only know their innocent curiosity

The drawers slam shut and I stand
Struggling to shadow then with my frame
I'm shaking, fearing this hot seat
My eyes averted from the wood and my audience

The contents of this dresser
Are mine to behold
In secret and completely alone

I forget that they are human. They have a limit. They are self conscious. The unknown scares them. My parents take everything that hits them and absorbs it, ensuring that I don't feel the blow.
But they are human, in every fragile way. Humanity never leaves us, and we can't ever leave it behind.

Madeleine, Maddie, Mads, MadDog, Blondie, The Writer, El Stupido - what you refer to me as does not change who I am. I am me. I love beauty; pure, simple, natural beauty. I believe it to be all around us and that we should not try to change it, but flow with it. I find it irresistible to look for, to pinpoint where it resides, and to put into words. At times my words do the beauty justice, in others I fall short. But I keep pressing forward.

My brother Cameron is the best person ever

Such strength lives in the words hate, love, death and fate with how they govern our lives using fear and expectation.

Rough Draft

We were gathered around the kitchen table. Some looking from a pair of eyes to the next, others looking into the table as if waiting for him to jump out of the mahogany swirls of the wood. I hugged my knees to my chest and focused soley on my right leg, just below my knee, where, no doubt, the edge of the table would leave a pinkish-purple indent for me to sport for the next hour or so. I welcomed the pain, the ache of circulation being stopped. Although my mind was going haywire, only stressed breaths and his mother's soft sobs broke the solemn silence. No one could say how long we sat there waiting; breathing. The only thing each of us knew was that we wanted our boy home, breathing our same air. Only then would time continue on.
The moment those brown eyes entered the kitchen door, it seemed God had reached out and spun the Earth like a globe. No movement, simply empty lungs and swollen hearts. When the world came to an slow, Penelope ran across the room and wrapped her arms around her little boy; slowly his hands rubbed her back. Whispered apologies were exchanged, filling the room with stuttered words. Eyes were wet and sniffles echoed off the walls. Slowly, I sat up, sore shin forgotten. He must have heard the movement, for his head lifted and his eyes bore straight into mine. I knew I didn't need to be fed his words of apology; I saw them boil in the dark void of his eyes. I broke from his gaze and explored his face for further traces of pain. Below, his lips were trembling. It was then that I noticed just how weak he was. He was hanging from his frame; his back hunched as he used his mother for support. I couldn't say the others noticed this detail, therefore, I took the initiative. Gliding to the fridge I began to gather various foods, thinking only that my boy was in need. Gradually others arrived in the land of clear thinking and filed over to Amborse; only Addie joined me in my hunt for bandages to dress the cuts and scrapes decorating Brose's skin in a sickly red.
"Roar," a pained voice slipped into the air. I was reaching for the bread perched on the top shelf of the pantry. I ignored the call, pushing all of my weight towards the sky with the tips of my toes. Again: "Aurora." My fingertips grazed the bag of bread but did not grasp it. Seconds after, bread was on the floor and my hand held my head were it had been thunked. It didn't hurt, not in any way that would bring tears to my eyes. Nonetheless, my face was wet and I tasted salt as it slid down my face in perfect droplets to land on my lips. Slow footsteps rang in my ears; an approach so pained and careful. Cautious hands gathered my hair and pulled it out of my face; shaking fingertips wiped my face dry. "Roar, look at me," he breathed. I drew in air, filled my lungs with it, with the air he was breathing. I held my lips closed to hold it inside of me and raised my chin. Those eyes I knew so well, so full of love, enclosed me.