Toxic's Collection

The way her hair flows in the wind,
Beautiful
Her smile that she wears far too rarely,
Enthralling.
The way her laugh seems to be infectious,
Uplifting.
How she wrings her hands when she thinks no one is looking,
Endearing.
The way she legitimately cares about people,
Wonderful.
The moments we spend together,
Priceless.
Who she is, how she is, what she is,
Perfect.

A little back story here. My grandmother is pretty sick (potentially terminally) and when I was talking to her in the hospital the question of what it would be like without her came up. This is my best attempt at putting that into words.

I stare at her picture blankly.
My mind awhir with all that we had shared.
Soaps, Mac 'n' Cheese, Root Beer.
All of it gone.

Too nice for her own good,
always used and discarded.
That never stopped her,
she lived to help and help she did.
Hours, Days, Months,
sacrificed for family, for me.
But not just family,
friends, neighbors, strangers.
"Everyone is a person,"
she would always say, smiling.

The smile is gone too.

She lived a long time,
through riches, poverty, turmoil.
She'd tried everything once,
but told me not to do the same.
Her advice was the best advice,
simple, useful, always true.

The advice is gone too.

A rift exists, at the top of the tree,
her name pulled off, set aside.
I still see it in that spot,
she will always be there.

But even her spot on the tree is gone.

What is truth, truly?
For some, it shifts as the sands,
standing synonymous with their beliefs.
What is truth, truly?
For some, it is a whisper,
drifting quietly from ear to ear.
What is truth, truly?
For some, it's an announcement,
trusting the herald, the lord, the king
But what is truth, truly?
For me, it is what exists,
based not on word of mouth, nor my beliefs.
Truth is what remains
even when the world doesn't believe.

I've been told I'm free,
But I've yet to find out what that means.
I'm held in place, a bird in a cage.
Longing to spread my wings.
Yet I find weights and chains and obstacles.
Not in a physical form that I could escape,
but surrounding me in ways far more constricting.
Life itself suppresses who and what I really am,
society crowds in, leveling expectations.
School, work, play, they're all lies, all façades.
The true me, the one I want to be, exists only as a memory.
I've lost sight of it, lost my way.
Which front is real? Are any?
I'm left with no choice but to stay hidden,
wait for a chance to find what I am, who I am, why I am.
It may never happen, it may happen tomorrow.
Only time will tell.

Oh, lamed bird,
why do you struggle?
You long for the sky, to soar and be free
but you can no longer fly
Oh lamed bird

Oh, lamed bird,
why do you struggle?
Your dreams lie above, in the heavens and beyond
but you can no longer fly
Oh lamed bird

Oh lamed bird!
Struggle on dear friend!
The world says you cannot fly, that you are no longer free
but still you believe.
Oh lamed bird!

Oh lamed bird!
Reclaim what was yours!
You know better than they do, you believe that you can
and you shall yet soar
Oh lamed bird!

The child sits alone
Silent, unseen, yet content
Lost in a world of his own making.
Not reveling in the stares of his peers,
He remains naught but a wraith.
Not taking joy in the presence of a group,
He remains naught but a ghost.
Is he wrong to be happier on his own?
Is he wrong to keep to himself?
Is he wrong to prefer his own company,
Over that of his shallow peers?
Is solitude such a sin?

The final bell rings and she rises to go
I just want to talk, but I'm always too slow
Her friends gather round and she walks out the door
I'd try harder next time, that was what I swore

I walked home alone, just like every day
Trying to decide what I wanted to say
To this angel of mine, this girl I revere
But she had no idea that I held her so dear

The next morning came, and I was aloof
I was eating my lunch alone on the roof
It was my secret spot, my own isolation
Sometimes I thought of it as my tiny nation

The door was pushed open, I turned in surprise
For there that girl stood, with widening eyes.
I stuttered a greeting, she blushed in reply
It was so bloody cute, I thought I might die

She requested to join me, I could barely nod
This angel of mine, was behaving so odd
She sat next to me, and pulled out her meal
Offered me some, like it was no big deal

We sat and we talked, and life seemed so grand
but then the bell rang, a horrid command
We rushed back to class, for the afternoon lecture
I heard not a word, I was lost in conjecture.

The final bell rings and she rises to go
I figured I'm lost, and I packed up real slow.
But she hadn't left, she was looking at me
I stared in surprise, almost started to pee

We walked home together, she lived right nearby
It made me so happy I started to cry
She chuckled at me, and reached for my hand
At that point I doubted I'd be able to stand

From that day on, we spent time together
We walked home, saw movies, and, well, did whatever
This girl that I'd longed for, this girl that's now mine.
No matter what comes, I'm sure we'll be fine.

Silence but for a rhythmic drip.
Tied to a board, no escape.
Men lean over, leering.
I'm entirely lost.

Arms bound, legs tied.
Movement is impossible.
The drip moves closer.
What is going on?

A light flashes on,
I wince in pain.
The drip finds my forehead
It starts to make sense.

Questions, steady like the tides.
They want to know who,
they want to know when.
It all comes back to me.

The rhythmic drip, drip,
my mind starts to crack.
The men smile, their goal in sight.
I give them nothing.

The disgust on their faces,
so clear in the floodlight.
They expected to gain more.
My will is as iron.

The men leave, a small victory.
The drip continues, steadily.
Hours pass, maybe days.
My sanity starts to crack.

The men return, leering again.
They expect an easy victory.
The questions come faster.
I need this to end.

The men leave, satisfied.
One places a knife on my throat.
He gives me a cruel smile.
The world goes black.

The trees sway calmly
A gentle breeze, fluttering
Is this what peace means?

A stream burbling
over stones that wear with time
its patience is strength

Life is whimsical,
today here, tomorrow not
Are we so fragile?

Boredom overwhelms.
What shall I do, you might ask.
I shall write haiku!

The smallest of life,
has meaning in its own way.
Who are you to judge?

Discuss your favorite place to get lost.

Being a guy (and therefore unable to ask for directions) I get lost. Regularly. Generally speaking it is an annoying waste of time. Sometimes. though, getting lost can not only be fun, but also rewarding. Getting lost like that is something I enjoy, and I've discovered that the best place to do so is in a library.

Libraries are glorious places, depositories of past knowledge and sanctuaries of peace and quiet. Should one find oneself lost in a library, you need never worry about being bored, simply grab a book and learn something or lose yourself in a story. The possibilities truly are endless. I've also learned that libraries are one of the best places to meet people. The kind of folks who spend time in libraries are also the kind of people who love books and gather stories to share. They also tend to be smarter than your average bear, though whether smartness leads to libraries or vice versa I haven't decided. Yet another benefit to being lost in a library is that you can relax and really think when you decide to become un-lost. Resting among the shelves and books is serene. So, whether you want to read a story or find your way home, you can truly gather your thoughts. All in all, there are few places I'd rather find myself lost than in a library (though a candy factory hits a close second).

What work of art, music, science, mathematics, or literature has surprised, unsettled, or challenged you, and in what way?

One of my favorite books is Blindness by Jose Saramago. The plot was gripping and well paced, the characters felt real, and even the city that it took place in felt alive. My favorite part about Blindness, though, came after I finished it. Because the book feels so real, I felt myself questioning their actions, not as fictional beings but instead as people. Mr. Saramago has a gift: despite the highly improbable plot, his novel read as reality.

Blindness is the tale of a group of people thrust together after a pandemic sweeps through their city. Anyone afflicted by the disease soon goes blind, leaving only one person (a character known as the doctor's Wife) with her eyesight. The book describes the public's response to the pandemic: that is to quarantine the infected before giving up when the blindness spreads. The latter half of the novel describes the anarchy that results in the city, the killings and thefts that start after just a couple weeks. Throughout it all, the doctor's wife serves as a guide to the rest of her group, helping to find food and avoid the sort of chaos that has consumed so many others.

Though the idea of a blindness pandemic like the one in Blindness is unlikely, the human response to that type of situation is shown. Analyzing each person's actions and what it takes for a normal, moral person to resort to murder and anarchy is thrilling and unsettling. For me, Blindness is a reminder that humans are closer to chaos then we tend to think, making the law, order, and civilization that we have cultivated all the more important.

Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.

24 September, 2007. A Monday much like any other, yet a day bubbling with excitement. My brother and I were preparing all throughout the day for the excitement that was sure to ensue that night. I’m talking, of course, about the Halo 3 launch for Xbox 360. My oldest brother, Travis, and I (ages 18 and 14, respectively) had pre-ordered the legendary edition of Halo 3, a $150 investment, and could not wait to go to the mall and pick it up at midnight. Of course, the 25th being a Tuesday we had school, but after some serious negotiating (and promises made about jobs to be done) our mother allowed us to stay home for the day to play.

Night time came, and the nerds arrived in force at the mall. The line stretched a solid hundred meters. The Chick-Fil-A had stayed open, and the E.B. Games was giving away free Game Fuel (a limited edition Mountain Dew Flavor). The atmosphere was festive, even two and a half hours ahead of launch time. Chatter flew over head of peoples’ plans for when they got home, plans to stay up all night playing Halo. My brother and I were on par with the community’s excitement. Midnight came, a cheer arose and the line lurched forward. Travis and I got to the front, received our copy, and rushed home.

From 12:30 A.M. until almost 10:00 P.M we played Halo non-stop. After clearing campaign, we started to play online. Eventually though, our endurance (and Mountain Dew supply) ran out and we went to bed.

The next morning the two of us had to go to school, and the suffering began. Never have I felt more behind in school despite only missing one day. I was exhausted, and the day dragged on forever. Even going home did not end the pain. I had catch up work to do, plus I had jobs for my mom. By the time all of that was finished, we barely had any time to play Halo. Both Travis and I were exhausted.

The state of affairs at the end of the second day of Halo raised questions. Was it really worth it? Would we have gotten more time to play had we just gone about our schedule normally? Was it really that important to get started playing Halo right when it released? Travis and I decided it was worth it, for the experience if nothing else. Though we were exhausted, those first few hours and the almost festive experience at the mall pre-release were a fantastic and unique opportunity.
That being said, I’ve decided that simply being patient for releases like Halo is a much better philosophy. Depriving yourself of sleep (especially on a school night) is a miserable experience, and being twelve hours behind for a video game is not a life ending detriment. Given the chance, though, Travis and I would definitely get Halo at midnight again.

It was a festival, of sorts. Births always were, what with how rare they were. The women all gathered around the one made fertile by the goddess. All throughout her pregnancy the expectant mother was showered with gifts, favors, well wishes and the like. Nothing, though, compared with the day of the birth. Women gathered in flocks around the birthing nest. They knew that the next child might not be born for another hundred blessings of the high goddess, when the largest of the three moons shone down in all of its glory, as it did this night.

There were few men to be found; only those lucky enough to be shop labor or a well-to-do women’s attendant. Most slaved in the fields, or the factories. To witness a birth was not something any man deserved. Being born among women a woman makes, the old saying went. But that was unimportant, the important jobs were all held by women anyways.

The crowd around the birthing nest stirred as the news spread. The pregnant women had entered labor. Her screams of agony washed over the expectant crowd like a drug. Those nearest swayed, as if being tossed about in a wind. The mother's screams grew louder and the crowd grew more alive. Every new scream wracked into the crowd as if alive, wresting control of each woman’s body, a virus of the mind. A thousand voices were raised in screams of agony; screams of ecstasy. The energy of the crowd swelled to a breaking point, seemingly shaking the earth. Inside the birthing nest the screams reached a crescendo and the screams outside matched them. Finally, after what felt like eons to those gathered, the noise died out and an unsteady silence settled. A child’s cry shattered the silence.

After a few moments, one of the birthing priestesses emerged from the nest and stood examining the gathered crowd, as if seeking some sin of which to convict them. Finding none, she nodded. “The child is a girl.” Cheers arose. The priestess raised her hand for silence. “The goddess has spoken, and her name shall be Arelia.” Whispers shot through the crowd like snakes through tall grass. The birthing priestess nodded again and reentered the nest as the crowd started to dissipate. The room just beyond the door through which she walked held a narrow table upon which lie the mother, a women tiny by all standards, with long brown hair like cinnamon that lay splayed beneath her nude form. Blood from the birth stained the lowest reaches. The priestess paused to check that she was healthy, and, finding her resting peacefully, proceeded into the next chamber where midwives gathered around a small crying bundle. The shock of cinnamon hair was just one of the traits the child shared with her mother; she also seemed impossibly tiny, despite being born perfectly healthy. Anointing her to the moon goddess had gone off without a hitch, as had the rite of naming. The child, seeming to sense a new presence, stopped crying and stared at the priestess, smiling the way only infants can; with their entire heart and soul focused into the simple gesture. Amused, the priestess continued through the chamber and into the third, final, and by far the largest room in the birthing nest, where the child would be raised until she was old enough to carry out her rights of respect to the goddess on her own. At that point she would be turned out and left to find her own path in life.

The priestess sighed. When she did, fierce wrinkles invaded her face like an army, gathering around her eyes and mouth. Though she had been attractive once, time had taken its toll. She had lived a long time, nearly 600 cycles of the seasons. She sighed again, and started muttering to herself about work that needed done; preparations that needed made. Despite their rarity, births always created an astronomical work load. Resigning herself to what needed done, she set to work preparing the long process of raising a child. As was proper of a birthing priestess, she sent many prayers to the goddess, begging guidance in raising young Arelia. She prayed for good health as well, both for the child and for herself that she might survive to see the child grown. After the priestess had made all the preparations that she considered necessary she sat on a small cushion and awaited the bundle containing her task for the next 17 cycles.

After only a short wait, the midwives entered the third chamber, the leader of the procession holding the small bundle. Bowing ceremoniously, she presented the bundle and its precious cargo to the priestess who accepted it gracefully. Arelia giggled at the sensation of being passed along, and all of the women smiled. The lead midwife rose, though her eyes remained on the floor. “May the goddess watch over you, priestess, that Arelia may be raised in her divine image.”

The priestess smiled, “And you, child.”

With that, the midwives withdrew, leaving the priestess alone with her young charge.

I've always wondered at the very nature of conflict. Nearly every confrontation I've seen that escalates into a full scale battle could have been easily resolved: yet it wasn't. And why is that? Simple: people. Humans are selfish beings by nature. Even on the little things, many often refuse to yield, be it pride, greed, or just plain obstinacy. It occurs on everything from major international debates to deciding who gets to go down the slide first. Were we not taught that the best conclusion is one everyone approves of? What happened to sharing is caring, or compromising, or even working together to find a solution that improves on both parties' views? Instead, we have playground scuffles, door slamming, angry divorces, and even wars. Now, I'm not naive enough to think that everything can be solved so simply. Some things naturally take their course, and inevitably end up in serious conflicts. But not everything that takes that path needs to. People need simply be flexible, accepting, and calm for many of the large conflicts to turn into small conflicts: the small to disappear. So again, the question is why can't people realize this and at least attempt to work towards it? And that, my friends, is where I'm thoroughly stumped.

My wife passed away about two years ago. I'd be lying if I said I was all that sad to see her go. Our relationship had gone to shit in the last few months or so that it lasted. So here I am: a thirty-something salary man, living my boring monotone life. I'd tried getting back into dating, but nothing seemed... right. I could never figure it out. I was just taking things day by day.
A couple months ago, though, I met a girl. Originally we would just hang out occasionally--she was married, though not horribly happy with it-- but things soon picked up. We began to really go out, and after a couple dates we slept together. But it still felt wrong. I pushed my unease down into the very recesses of my conscience and hoped it would go away. Things with the girl progressed steadily on; she seemed happy, I pretended to be happy, everything was fine. Or so I thought.
One day about a month into our relationship we were lying in bed at my place, sometime in the middle of the afternoon--the lyrics of that crappy song jumped to mind, something about rockets, I think?--and she turned to me and said, "I love you." I stared at her a second, stunned, then realized I can't honestly say it back. She seemed to read my reluctance and told me that it’s ok, she just wanted to say it. I pushed the matter out of my head, figured I'd come to love her eventually.
Time went on, and our flings happened more often. Her husband barely seemed to notice she was gone. Lying in bed after a particularly spirited bout, she turned to me and begged, "Please say you love me. You don't have to mean it, just say it. Please." I looked at her for a second, and then spoke the biggest lie of my life. She smiled, a sad smile, not a trace of happiness to be found, and snuggled back up next to me. I tried not to think about what happened, and when she moved to leave, I started getting up to walk her out. She gave me another one of those sad smiles and told me not to move, she wanted to remember seeing me lying in bed, she said. After that she got dressed and left.
I didn't see her for a week after that. Then my phone rang: her number. I picked it up and was surprised to find it was her husband, calling everyone in her contacts to let them know she had killed herself; the same day I said I loved her. He was letting everyone know when and where the funeral was, and yet, even though his wife had just died, he didn't sound sad: he sounded bored and a little irritated. The day of the funeral came, and I sat in the park across the street, watching the church. The husband was standing out in front, checking his watch every couple of minutes. A bell rang and he walked inside. I couldn't bring myself to enter.
As I stared emptily at the church it hit me. What had been missing; in dating, in my relationship, and in my life since just before my wife died.
Love. I had lost the ability to love.
When exactly it happened was a mystery to me, but it made perfect sense. The girl I'd been seeing was perfect: cute, funny, charming, genuinely into me, and yet I felt nothing for her. Even the fact that she wanted to hear me say "I love you"--no matter how big of a lie it was--barely phased me.

I think it was this realization, more than anything else, that I mourned that day.

I hate the holidays. But it wasn’t always that way. Way back in the day, I was just another Christmas happy kid jizzing his pants in anticipation of all the goodies I’d be getting. As I got older, though, I changed, and those around me failed to keep up. For starters I picked up a couple of, shall we say, hobbies? that I was forced to keep secret by an old-school Christian father (he slept with a god damn bible under his pillow) and a mother who expects Asian grades out of a lazy white boy. The rest of my family isn’t much better: needless to say having all of them stuffed into our family home for two weeks every winter does not leave a lot of private space or private time. And so comes yet another holiday season of “joy and cheer and unstoppable capitalism” while I pretend—always pretending—to be something I’m not: normal.
To back up a little bit, when I was 13 years old I watched my first anime on Cartoonnetwork. Neon Genesis Evangelion, every Saturday at 11 o’clock P.M. Let’s just say I was infatuated, and as one of my good friends likes to say, I became an in-the-closet weeaboo. What started with dubbed animes late at night turned into watching them online, often for hours at a time. I slowly grew more and more into anime, that wondrous portal to world I could only dream about before. Eventually I got to my teenage years, got a job, and started buying paraphernalia from my favorite animes, hiding it wherever I could find space.
Things seemed all well and good, for a while. That is, until I hit puberty. Suffice it to say that mixing a fifteen or sixteen year old boy’s sex drive with a growing anime obsession (full of beautiful girls, seemingly perfect in every way) created quite the hentai freak. I spent hours bouncing from site to site, 4chan’s /h/, whatever video’s I could find on Redtube and of course Fakku. Keeping this “ultimate sin” from a father who was sure to castrate me if he found out and a mother who was apt to psychotic panic attacks when imagining me doing anything but studying is difficult year round. During the holidays, with so many more potential landmines surrounding me and encroaching on my already limited free-time, it was nigh impossible.
And here we are: winter break 2010-2011. My parents are off at the airport picking up one set of relatives, another is in the car on the way here. Each and every one of them another disaster waiting to happen. I figured I had an hour to hide every anime related item in my possession. I set to the task with gusto usually only seen when a child is forced to consume their own excrement.
Later, when I was satisfied that everything was safely stowed away, I paused to consider my behavior for the next couple weeks. Cheerful and loud? Quiet, yet content? Should I play with the smaller kids or hang with the adults? Yet, even through my planning session, one piece of me just shook its head in disgust. That part, I realized, was me. Not the facades I assume for my parents or family. Me as I actually am. The part that wanted to scream “I masturbate to drawn pictures of little girls!” I resolved, then and there, to stop hiding the truth.
“Fuck it” I said, “I’m going to be who I am and to hell with everyone else”.
So I marched (it feels good to march when you’re doing something important) up to my room and removed certain pieces of my anime collection out of the hiding spots. Then I walked downstairs, got some chocolate ice cream, and sat in my favorite chair near the front door. Eventually, my parents walked in the door with my Uncle, Aunt and two young cousins.
“Dad, we need to talk”
My mother, bless her soul, shuffled everyone else into the kitchen. My father however, gave me a look I’d never seen before: part confusion, part challenge.
Instead of explaining everything there in the foyer, I dragged him up to my room where my favorite items were set on display.
“What the hell is all this?” he asked.
“It’s my collection. I’ve been into this kind of stuff, anime, hentai and other Asian culture items for years. I’m tired of hiding it and whether you accept it or not, it’s who I am.”
I don’t quite remember what happened next, but I woke up in the hospital and, according to my cousin (age 8), “Uncle Dave punched you so hard in the face that your nose †˜sploded!” I returned home a couple days later to find everything I had pulled out to show him had been thrown in a fire, my computer had some filter program on it, and my dad refusing to make eye contact.
Have I mentioned how much I love the holidays?

Five-Thirty. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was late. They were expecting him at five, and Milly would kill him if he didn't show up soon. Finally, he rounded the corner and spotted the building that he wanted: the old 405 West Street complex. Taking the stairs three at a time, he bounded up to the 4th floor. Hardly had he reached the door before it was thrown open and a small, long-haired girl wearing black sweat pants and a white tank-top entirely inappropriate for December weather leaped out, tangling him in her arms. Though Damion was not a large man, he had a solid six inches on the girl clinging to his chest.

"Damion! You're late! You even told me you'd be on time today!" At this she pouted and released Damion, crossing her arms.

Damion just chuckled and followed her inside. "Where's everyone else, Mils?" he asked. The girl twitched, just like she always did when he used that nickname.

"Milly," she corrected him. "And they went on ahead. I stayed behind to wait for you. We're supposed to catch up with them at the station."

Damion raised an eyebrow. "Supposed to?"

Milly flashed him one of her famous grins, the kind that lights up an entire room. "But I figured, it's New Years Eve, why don't we enjoy it?" She winked and stepped out of the room, returning with a blue winter jacket, a hat, and a set of matching pink mittens that were clearly worn regularly, as shown by the multicolored patches haphazardly sewn onto them. Pulling on her warm clothes, Milly grabbed Damion by the arm and dragged him out of the small apartment, pausing briefly to lock it on her way out.

"Here's what I'm thinking: when was the last time we did something really fun together?"

Damion had to pause for a moment. "When you and me and Al-"

Milly cut him off. "Exactly. When the three of us went to that amusement park. But what about since then?" They both paused as they remembered what had become the turning point in their lives. "She'd want us to have fun. We can't mope forever. Besides, what else are you going to do, sit at home and read hentai?"

Damion sighed. "There's nothing wrong with hentai, and I do have friends on Fakku too, but you're probably right, Mils." Twitch. "I mean, you're usually right, but still. Ali-" he corrected himself when Milly glared, "she would want us to act like we normally do, right?" A brief nod from his friend confirmed it. "So what should we do? I mean, yeah enjoy ourselves, but beyond that?"

"Well, I was thinking we could go skating or something. I dunno, what do friends normally do?" They both stared blankly at each other for a moment.

Finally Damion broke the silence. "We suck at this, don't we?" Milly laughed.

"Yes, we do. But we can learn . . . probably."

They walked on in silence (not the awkward kind, the companionable kind) until they reached the station. A brief scan of the schedule showed that the next train to the skating pond left at six. Damion checked his watch. "It's 5:45. We've got 15 minutes to kill," he said.

"Quicky in the bathroom?" Milly asked. After they stared at each other for a moment she felt the need to clarify, "I was kidding, perv."

"Oh. Well, see, that kind of thing happens a lot. At least in hentai it does. Jacob uploaded a doujinshi the other day where . . ."

Milly cut him off. "No hentai today. I get that you like it, that's fine by me, but today we're being normal." She looked at Damion for a second, then down at herself. "Well, relatively normal."

The two made their way to a bench and sat down, their backs against the cold stone wall. People walked by, couples, groups, loners, but none paid any heed to the two on the bench. After a while Milly turned to Damion and started to ask a question, but a voice from the over head cut in, "Attention: the 6 o'clock train to South station will be boarding shortly, please make your way to the platform." The two pushed off the wall and hopped onto the train.

The rest of the day passed in what could have been a normal date, if not for an air of forcedness that surrounded the pair. It was kind of like when a group of people laugh at a bad joke because they feel like they have to. Nighttime found them back in Milly's apartment, where they had started, with their shoes off and their feet kicked up, snuggled up under warm blankets and watching some news station's coverage of Times Square.

Eventually, Milly spoke. "Hard to believe she's only been gone a year."

Damion stared blankly at the screen for a moment before responding, "You know, Ali-" Milly tried to cut him off, but he continued anyways, "Alice would laugh at us. 'All I did was die and you two go all mopey?' she'd say."

"Don't forget her stern face," Milly added. They both chuckled as they attempted to imitate it, a cross of scolding and friendliness that neither could quite pull off. "It's weird," she continued. "Just last year the three of us were sitting on this couch watching this program, with no idea that she'd be gone the next day." (Three Dead in New Years Accident, the headlines had read). "Life is fragile isn't it." This last part was said quietly, almost fearfully, and certainly not as a question. Damion let his arm fall around Milly's narrow shoulders, a silent motion of assurance. Milly continued, "When we were little we talked about how we'd be together forever, and Alice and I would both marry you and we'd live happily ever after in a castle on the moon. Then, in one day, it was gone. What if it happened to you too? What would I do?"

Damion gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry, Mils." Twitch. "I'm not going anywhere. Not now, not ever."

She looked up from the T.V. and their eyes met. "Not ever?"

He nodded. "Not ever." A herald of fanfare drew their attention to the screen. The ball, a giant conglomerate of glimmering, sparkling, and shining lights and crystal, had begun it's inexorable descent towards the earth, marking the last seconds before the new year. Neither Damion nor Milly was sure who had started it, but when the ball stuck zero they were kissing, slowly at first and then more passionately as they each reacted to the other's touch.

Eventually, Milly pushed away and said, "We're not betraying her, are we?"

Damion thought about it then shook his head. "She always wanted whatever made you happy. If this is what you want, then she would want it too."

"You're not just saying that so I'll sleep with you?"

He chuckled. "I'm not just saying that so you'll sleep with me, promise."

Milly stared at him for a moment, then rested her head on his shoulder.

"Happy new year, Damion."

"Happy new year, Mils."

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The boy liked its rhythmic breathing.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
His neighbor couldn't decide if he wanted to set it on fire or smash it with a hammer.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The girl in the front had learned selective hearing at home. She didn't notice it.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Each child in the same situation, each with a unique view.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Each waiting for the same moment, for it to point to the sky.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The hands grew closer, and finally, finally, the roar of the bell sounded.

I went to the park today. Not the most exciting thing to do, but I enjoy it. There's a bench there that I've come to think of as mine: it has the best view of all the going-ons and it's shaded, an excellent trait to have as it starts to heat up. But today I went and sat on my bench, and did nothing but quietly watch the people walking by. I saw singles, couples, groups, and clusters; smiles, frowns, scowls, and even tears; children and adults, young and old, they all passed by me, none giving any notice. But I noticed them. For despite the similarities (I saw two men wearing the same John Deere shirt, for example) each was unique. One boy that passed was biting his fingernails; another had his hands clasped behind his back as he whistled his way along. A set of parents swinging a young child between them by the hands, another with the kid dragging along behind like a dejected duckling. I suppose I'm not in any position to judge people I don't know, but watching people for a couple hours on a peaceful day, I feel like I learned something about each of them. Most, if not all, have passed from my existence for good, but I may meet one again. Hell, there might have been a fellow Fakku member in there. But the biggest thing I take away from my people-watching expedition is that people are unique, yes, but also connected. No person passed through my view without being affected in some way by another person. This includes those on their own, who may have smiled at a pretty girl or laughed at a small child. Each person exuded an aura of sorts, not in a metaphysical or a magical sense, but in a very physical way. These imaginary auras intermingled and affected each person that passed through, even me in my role as a third party observer. I suppose that none of what I'm rambling about here is news of any sort, but the knowledge was reawakened based on a simple experience of sitting in the park. Sometimes, and this was one of those times, the best way to learn is simply to sit back and watch the world flow. Either that or I might be over thinking everything again. I tend to do that.