Leaf: Winter, Snowflake

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage. 

-Lao Tzu

I haven't called my family in eons. At five thirty in the morning, my father pinged me to video chat. I had slept early today, so, I figured, why not? It's been so long, in fact, I haven't realized that my older brother (only by two years) was living in something of a foster home but for those with special needs. He has his own room, and the caretakers show. teach him how to become independent. My father got a new job with a different company who looks to be stable and promising in the workforce. My mother got her job back at American Girl. She was fired from it previously, to which I blame myself for having dropped her off late. The little brother is still his goofy, odd self. It was sometime last week when he was caught by the police in North High School's soccer field with another friend. Court day is sometime next week. Other than that, we chatted for a good while. He caught me up to speed with the family, and shared some stories of his carpeting adventures. It brought about an overwhelming calm to me when I talked to him. I never realized how bitter, high-strung and yucky I felt until I saw the face of my father. Maybe that's what I needed. Family. Some place I can call home.

It was round two of counseling. My admin chief noted that I seemed sad, given I was trying to wave that off with an obviously halfhearted smile. He prodded, continued to poke until I gave in. I told him it was a breakup. and that's when the dam of a storyteller burst at the seams. He went into a few stories, mainly ones involving hookups and his many encounters with shallow, insincere women. Heck, he even suggested I tap into my bisexuality and try women for a bit, "grab their ass and feel their titties. See what it's like to get some pussy, know what I'm sayin'?" As crude as that sounded, I just laughed internally. I've never been with a woman before and don't know how I feel with this avenue of exploration. Last time I remember almost going into a relationship with someone of the female gender was back in the ninth grade. I was strolling down the sidewalk, breathing in the shining lake and aromatic, nutty autumn when I sat down to write a poem. I was then approached by two people, one of them introduced herself and stood by the bench I sat at. She wanted ideas, inspiration for a poem to submit for a contest. That was the special dressing on the lasagna. I'll gladly help out! Awwww. So, she got comfortable enough to sit by me and we chittered about why we love poems, what sort of poetry we write, our days in school, etcetera. The following weekend, we scheduled a day to really bring home the spinach (I love me some greens) and get to work on those poems. Nope. Instead, at the park, we did a bunch of other things but that. I brought my laptop and showed her my photos I took over the years. We exchanged comments on a few noteworthy pieces, having a particular fondness of the goslings piece. After a bit, we walked around and saw this delicious hill that begged to be rolled down. So we did, and nearly landed in a natural landmine. Still on the ground, her dog (about as big as I was) flopped on her face and wiggled from side to side. We got a hearty chuckle from that. As we strolled past the playground, grabbing a stick, she poked my cheek. I ran back to return the affection, and from there, we played tag, hiding behind the slide, rolling in the mulch, swinging on the swings and enjoying the evening sun. It was one of the most fun I had in a while. It brought about this sense of free-flowing wonder, where I saw in bold beauty the magnificence of the world in the small, frabjous joys of the day. It was enough to bring a tear to my eye, the glory of it all.
With a hug, we parted. We met again for a picnic but that was the last I'd see from her. She moved far from her home by the park and found a girlfriend to call her own.

I didn't expect that, but I was happy for her.

July 22, 2018

When I woke up, I had three things in mind, dodgeball, masturbation (the idea of, not to go practice)  and a wedding.

July 23, 2018

I dreamt of a grand architecturally sound masterpiece of a building, a chapel of rainbow chandeliers, ruined marble tables, sculptures, an entire organ offset by its deteriorating frame, candelabras galore, with windows whose arc grazes the ceiling in stained glass art pieces and tiles polished but spilled with gravel and debris from the building's boulder wound. The green glow of the evening beckoned for a "nightmarifying".  As though I were in a wicked schizophrenic loop, I witnessed and relived the degrading skin of my friends, turning to black char from those I stood by, whom I loved and cared for, they all perished under the spell of the green night. When I searched, a hope, almost seemingly obvious summoned me forward. It was a plushie with a soft halo, each one was significant to the person affected by the charring, a memory that outlives time. Mine was a baby toucan.

July 24, 2018

I was at a house party, or better described as a mansion party. Each room was personalized in a certain color, and I remember one down the hall being an effervescent pink. The walls were turquoise, the layout seemed that of the typical upper echelon of families doing well in the economy. Calm, simple, wooden furniture spotted the interior like polka dots on a red wall. The environment was serene. Looking down, I realized I was wearing my woodland cammies and had a tarp in my back pocket. Only one other wore their military uniform, and they wore blue. The soothing aroma of quiet gradually inclined to a steamy one. Although it seemed every room had some action going on, I was never approached, nor did I want any. I escaped to the garage and socialized with another.

(I briefly woke to rotate my laundry, then had another dream.)

I was late to church! As I hurried I gently opened the front doors and saw two men stomping soda cans. Easing my way to the back door, I saw an open bench and was squeezed tight with another incoming family. When I peered to my right at a woman in pink and white attire, I stared, unbelievingly. It was my grandmother. She huddled right beside me and took a seat, smiling gently like I remember, eyes squinting happily to the front, then to me.

I'm nothing special, yet  I know there aren't any other quite like me, scientifically and metaphorically. There are avenues to life that I have yet discovered through my lack of initiative and persistence, courage to overcome my anxiety of change, memories of routes untaken to haunt my drive, and the mistakes that are no longer mistakes, but selfish betrayals of my hopes to learn, strive, be the person I want to be. Almost daily I've been having dreams with the same themes over and over; being chased, dawn, flight, rudeness, friends, nightmares, love, darkness, opportunities, a new beginning, hope, challenge, courage and hardship. It's taking a good chunk of courage to leave the life I left behind and have it stay that way. Some days I get frantic and lose my mind, forgetting what, who I'm fighting for. Other days I get so lost I step outside to remember the horizon. Remember the horizon. Then there was one dream that continues to pop in my mind, church. When, in the dream I attended, my grandmother walked in and sat right next to me, pink and blind as ever, but smiling her soft heart at me. Some days I think about her, and end up missing her. She was there for every game my brothers and I played, through every tantrum I threw, through all my birthdays and visits home after I got stationed in South Carolina. She taught me to always remain faithful, even through the worst of times. Maybe if I attended church, I'll get to see her again. I remember on her last day, she recognized my sobbing voice through video chat and told me to always pray with God, stay educated, and... ugh, what was the last part?
With all this sin building up like cholesterol, I'm surprised my soul hasn't had a heart attack.
It's time to go back to church.