Momento Mori

Sometimes I realize that I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Most of the time when that happens I just try to stuff the thought back down my throat and tuck it behind my liver where it belongs. Other times I let the thought swirl around in front of my eyes, and after a while it airs out and stops smelling so much like bile. Other times I imagine an envelope floating directly over my head that's addressed to me and has all the answers and someday I'll tear open its paper lips and my wrinkled fingers will tremble as they unfold the letter and read the strange writing:

"Dear Mr. Turner,

This letter is empty because you already know everything that's going to happen to you because your life is over now.

Love, 

Death"

And then I'll wonder where Death learned to speak English, and die.

A Big Day for Wesley

A few months ago I learned that a short story of mine was going to be featured in a literary journal. As my first legitimate publication, it was a big day for me to see it online. I look forward from many 'big days' in the future, most of which will hopefully be unrelated to my literary endeavors. For now, I'm content to look up my short story everyday, just to know that it's there.

You can read "So Close to Heaven" here.

What Do You See Out There?

"Mama?"
"Mm?"
"Mom?"
"Yes."
"I was wondering about dying."
"..."
"Lettie said that when you die a man with a white face and black robes comes and takes your soul right out of your mouth, and that your soul looks like the bud of a small white flower with a firefly trapped inside. I told Lettie she was a liar because I hadn't heard anything like that before and Lettie says a lot of things. But is it true? Is it really like that, Mama?"
"..."
"Mom?"
"Mm?"
"Is it true?"
"No dear, death isn't beautiful. Not like that."
"Is that why you wait by the window?"
"..."
"What are you looking for, Mama? What do you see out there?"

Secrets in her Fists

She held her secrets in her fists
like birds still wanting breath.
But when she called I came to her
Walked between the shadows of trees
Felt autumn wind in our lungs
Counted the clouds.
I would have whispered "I love you,"
But they were just three words and
I was just one person with a heart
too small for words so big and it felt
cruel to say something possibly untrue.
I could see the reflections
of clouds in her eyes, moving slowly
away from us. She whispered "I love

the way the leaves whisper in the trees.
What are they saying, do you think?"

The Brave

Some people look upon the burning world
and say very matter-of-fact-ly that
Even the sweetest cake contains a teaspoon of salt
then put their sunglasses on
their heads down
and trudge along the hot coals.

But the brave, of whom I'm not part,
look into the celestial fire,
Its colors, its stifling heat, and say:
"Let it cauterize my soul."
Then spread their arms wide
and relish in the panic.

The Lives I'm Not Living

 A very wise man* once wrote a book, and in that book there is a line that consists of these words: "Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."

Which makes me wonder about all the lives that I'm not living. Science tells us that there are infinite universes, with infinite possibilities such that in some green skied world, a Wesley very much like myself is typing at the kitchen table of his mother's home wondering about the lives he too isn't living. A similar Wesley types in a world with an orange sky, and another in a world overrun with Okapis, and another in a world that rejected footwear. A plump Wesley types in a world where the United States split during their Civil War, and a blonde haired Wesley lives in a world where the bombing of Guernica never happened, and Picasso's masterpiece never came to be. In an even greater infinity of worlds, Wesley never comes to fruition at all. His great grandpa didn't leave his prosperous bakery in Southern Germany and instead ended up fighting on the Nazi side in World War II, where he died and his son and granddaughter, my mother, were never born. In another universe, Wesley becomes the leader of a cultish group who oppose bathing.

 In another world, Eve refused the fruit, and all of humanity remains hidden inside of her. 

But these Wesleys don't tug on my insides like some of the other Wesleys do. Not like the very similar Wesleys who handle things better, who don't lie awake sometimes wondering what they could have done to circumvent pain and sorrow. The Wesleys who are selfless and noble and better. When I think about them my bones feel heavy under the weight of the life that I'm now living.  

But another thought comes. Let's use a simple example: If Wesley had whined less as a child, and been a better Wesley, his father might have believed him sooner when six-year-old Wesley broke his leg skiing once. But how would non-whiny six-year old Wesley have learned the consequences of being a whiny four and five-year-old without, say, breaking his leg? How would Great-Grandpa Niederlein have learned to trust his instincts if he had never left his bakery in Southern Germany? How would Eve have learned the joys of motherhood had she kept all those babies inside of her? 

Like her, we eat and are crushed, but only so we can learn to lift the weight placed upon our backs. 

*Jonathan Safron Foer, in his Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Nothings and Somethings

Sometimes, when I'm alone in my bed, I curl up really tight, like an armadillo, and try to squeeze myself into nothingness. It hasn't worked yet. I think a lot of people are afraid of being nothing, which I am too but not for the same reasons. A lot of people say things like, "I need to be something. I want something. Make something of yourself" but I don't think it would sad to be nothing. I think it would be a really good time. For one thing, you wouldn't be having to go to the bathroom all the time, which is a problem I have, and also you could float around your room since gravity wouldn't be able to grab you anymore. Although, you might miss talking to your mom on Sundays because your larynx wouldn't exist anymore, and likewise you couldn't change things up by dying your hair a new color. But I've never done that. I think I wrote that in case there were any girls reading this, and they wanted to know a little bit about what it would be like to be nothing. Another thing about being nothing that I wanted to say is that if you were nothing you could be a lot of other things. You could be an astronaut, or a deep sea diver, or an airplane, because you wouldn't need any air. You could also be a camel, cause they don't need water most of the time, and also a squid. The only hard thing about being nothing, like I said, would be watching all the other people and having to stay at home, which would be hard even if your home was a volcano (which you could do if you were nothing), because you would be really lonely. And also finding places to stay, because there's a whole of of somethings around and less and less nothings. It would be hard too if you were watching people you really loved and they were having a hard time, and there wasn't anything you could do about it except watch it happen because they were a something and you were a nothing. It would be even harder if there was somebody you really loved, but they had you in their heart, because you were Nothing and everybody should be full of Something. I bet if you tried really hard you could undo the nothing, and be a little bit of something, and maybe that little bit of something would be just what they needed, which makes me wonder how many nothings are floating around, helping me out when I have a really hard day.