Going down to the May parade...

These feelings, buried deep, resurface once in a while. I hope that like some distant marsh, they will slowly drain away. They cut, weigh down, cloud, break and then break again, and they have shaped me into me. I am no longer a yes-man, no longer content on just swimming along. I am a broken bittern. Hoping, hoping that I could forget my home, or to leave it behind, silencing everything, but I am too afraid to take flight, too afraid that I might fall. And so, I’ve stayed, sometimes, oft times, wondering why.

happy birthday soon to my sister, the lovely girl with the russian name

In a celebration of sorts, I'm putting up a little something I wrote a while ago. I hope that's not cheating, if there are even any rules in this game. I had Sierra and myself in mind in the following. But I think Nat can include herself in here and so may anyone else who wishes, except if you are of the male sex because that would be rather disjointed. It's not the greatest, but it's something I'd like to go back and revise one day.

The girl next door. The girls next door. We’re not your sassy type. We like dirt on our knees and the scars left from long forgotten sticks and stones. We pull our hair back out of our eyes so we can see the world and face it head-on. We disdain the coloring of nails either on feet or hands. We prefer the dirt to have free roam between our fingers and toes. We can’t count the times we’ve slept under the sky. The girls next door. Chapstick suits us fine and we don’t wear it for the shine it gives but for the comfort it offers after a full day in the sun. We mow the lawns, weed the garden, and harvest the fruit. We hop the fence and laugh when our shorts catch the top of the fence and rip. We stand on mountain tops and feel strong. We hold babies closely and feel their hearts beat near ours. We are the girls next door.

Ok...ok...I'm writing

This is out of the reverie of my nighttime reflections (that's sort of redundant, I know.)

Why do I eat lemons?

I eat lemons out of habit. To me, there is a something pure and honest in that first sour taste; like a hidden truth that cuts you and then is gone. Lemons are the most delicious fruit whereas coconut is the most disgusting—syrupy sugar.

I am a truth-seeker. Truth comes in all forms. I study the veins of a caterpillar, the bark on a tree trunk, and the ripples of the water on a lake. I listen for whispers of wind and singing of crickets. But most of all, I read. I read books were life is simple, uncomplicated, and truth is that good always conquers evil. That is not how real life is. Some days this fictitious truth disgusts me because it is so far-fetched. Other days I bask in the light of imaginary worlds.

Truth-seeking is not a hobby or a pastime—it is my life. In a world where confusion clamors at the walls of magistrates' houses and black and white fade to grey, I need to grasp truth. Not the overplayed clichés that haunt every student's English essay, but real, deep understandings of life.

That is why I eat lemons.