The beautiful thing about snow

is its luminescence.

In the darkest, most foul and bitter night

it outlines everything in white,

itself glowing with the afterimage of the day.

In this way, it is like your soul.

.

These moments, I believe,

are the reason we say that time is frozen.

Because, as the landscape becomes a negative

to be later developed by memories somewhere deep in our skulls

time has indeed stopped.

In this way, they are like your stare.

.

Once the blizzard has passed a new dawn does not rise

so much as it lingers somewhere upon the horizon blocked by the trees

that cradle each snowflake with such care

you would think they were lovers,

and not so murderous to the plant life

which they choke and chill and bleach.

In this way, it is like your heart.

And mine.

.

The sky and the dirt for a time invert themselves.

For once, the ground is pure and clean and desolate,

while the air becomes a ruddy haze meant only for the eyes

of the one who takes the time to gaze upon a secret

no one should have stumbled upon.

In this way, it is like your mind.

Though I never knew it to be part of me.

.

Until,

of course,

I met you.

At this point I’m throwing myself against bars wrought apart by tears and screams and kneeling in the dew before a church with cold white breaths after dark, and I can’t tell anymore if the twisted, invisible bruises crisscrossing beneath my skin are hurting me.

Anyone could tell you, this cage used to be of glass.

I used to be the clone of a trophy that enabled a vicarious lifestyle. I am unsure of when it changed, but as to why, it may have been because I was becoming strong enough to break it. To pound my fists against the brittle walls and shatter the sick dream so that the razor shards of transparent motivations would rain down red upon myself and those who once looked through so smugly.

Now, it’s like the metal has softened, the bars are fewer, no longer a trap within a trap enveloped in heavy drapes that are far too warm and pleasantly suffocating.

Now, if I reach my arm out and stretch it as far as the marionette strings will allow, and push myself against the cold black lines, and pop my shoulder out of place the same way that my mind wanders so that the bone where my right wing might one day grow back from its sheared stump fits between them, the barely-raised ridges of my peeling fingerprints can almost graze the light outside the cage.

That light is what made me examine the lock. I’m sure I’ve seen it before, though I have little memory of it for the folly of misunderstanding its significance. I have the key somewhere, but cannot I know that the copy I’ve made will fit. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut it off, metal on metal ringing sharp and shrill, enough to cut your hands and scar your face and heart and soul.

My fear wanes as the bars move more easily still, and in apprehension I have begun to long for that day the steel will buckle and crack, whether under word or action.

If the door will not open, then I will make one of my own.

I am a potential flight risk

I daydream of freedoms impossible for me to acheive

I am confined by chains of my own making

I strain against the biting manacles that will not break

I am full to bursting with that which goes unnamed

I guess I didn’t realize

as my feet sank through the floor,

as the waves were lapping warmly,

that the ocean asked for more.

.

I guess I didn’t notice

as the sirens called my name,

the sand had ground my senses dull

and I forgot the lighthouse flame.

.

I guess I didn’t see it,

for the salt did sting my eyes,

but I was falling deeper down

past the foam’s too kind disguise.

.

I guess I didn’t feel it

through my sun and wind burnt skin

that the water swirling in my lungs

would be the only thing to win.

Capturing a thought

is like bear traps on butterflies.

They’re unpredictable.

They come and go as they please

and yet, so delicate

that any amount of force seems excessive.

But it must. be. caught.

And plastered onto a page like your life depends on it

and your handwriting worsens as your pencil flies across the paper so you can scribble it down before it slips right through your spiked steel fingers and your frenzied vomit of words is expelled so violently that the table shakes and your point breaks and just like that your butterfly is—

crushed.

.

And, hopefully, you had it in your sight

long enough to see its wings.

.

Hopefully, you’ll have put it somewhere you’ll remember.

Because as hard as you deliberately try to live in that very moment—

you’ll forget tomorrow.

.

Capture your butterflies between the leaves

in piles of paper

so you can see their beauty—

or lack thereof— later.

.

Write it down.

Oh, this is how it ends.

Good for you, you no longer have to pretend.

Oh, this is where we part,

I’m done with you and how you always break my heart.

.

But I guess you could say,

That we wanted it this way

And all that’s left here

Is the pain and the fear

Of letting go.

.

And oh, this is what I know,

Now that it’s over and I had to watch you go.

Oh, someday I’ll make you see,

That all you ever wanted, that’s what I could be.

.

But I guess you could say,

That we wanted it this way

And all that’s left here

Is the pain and the fear

Of letting go.

.

But too late for second guessing,

You’ve moved on and so should I.

I guess it’s just kind of depressing,

That I only wanted to try.

I know that she’ll only hurt you,

Can’t you see you’re living a lie?

I’m assuming that she’ll break your heart, soon,

And I’ll be holding your hand with a sigh.

.

Oh, this is how it goes,

You give your heart away and it just goes to show,

Oh, this is what I’ll do,

Until the end of time, and just because it’s you.

     I once saw the curve of time across the horizon. My time, at least, and therefore whether it was days or months ago doesn’t matter. I saw the painfully finite nature of everything I knew and would ever know, and then I saw the infinity beyond myself, the thousands of millennia which would not know me or my name, and the nonexistent dent which my short life made upon it all.

     You’ve seen it, too, haven’t you?

Realize we must live for us

And not for others.

Not for your mother,

Father,

Sisters,

Or brothers.

.

If it will make you happy, do.

If it will give you freedom, go.

A life that is not yours is squandered,

Frittered away on dreams that are not yours.

Given to charity are your thoughtful hours,

But never quite in earnest.

.

Do not mourn for the expectations lost on you,

They did not suit,

As they were not your choices.

.

Do not expect the lost to mourn their broken path,

They will return,

And they will soon find their way.

.

Let’s not regret what we have done.

Let’s not allow ourselves to look back in shame.

Do not be disappointed.

If it is wrong, make it right.

If it is right, there is nothing to regret.

So don’t.

     This is the story of every knight you’ve been told of, and of those you’ll never know.

     Every knight has a quest. I want to go about open minded, trying not to grovel and not go gloating to anyone else, like a humble knight with a pen for a sword. Have you heard of a truly noble knight who bragged about himself? They go off and fight dragons with no qualms, and without becoming arrogant. And if you can fight a dragon with words, maybe you can kill it more definitely.

     Every knight has a quest, but the tasks and trials along the way are often unknown. Make your quest ambiguous and broad, so that you might not be limited in your smaller victories and learnings on the way. My quest is to leave a mark. To make things better. To pull people of their groveling stupor, get them to stand on their own. I want to change the world. I can try, at least. Maybe I’ll impact one person in a positive way. Maybe I’ll save the world one person at a time. That’s all I can ask for. You see, it only takes one to make a stand, and maybe the one will help someone else.

     We are told the truth often forced upon us by society: you will not be remembered. This is from the same hypocritical institution in which we are convinced that we will all become famous or rich or successful… We are dragged to this fact kicking and screaming until we cannot breathe and lose our strength.

     However, some of us are given this truth and do not tire. With each lesson we become more incensed, more violently defiant of our apparent doom in the presence of eternity, and those who react as such are perhaps the dangerous ones; those who might break the deceptively fragile state we have come to recognize as the mundane, the comfortable. These are the ones who refuse to go quietly and fade into the background of history. Some of these knights, whether dark or light or anything in between, are those who will leave a mark on our world— be it scar or masterpiece. Drive,though, is something we lack. Until we find ourselves ready to face our obstacles we will not manage to leave a mark. If you find yourself inspired, get up (or sit down) and do what allows that explosive rush of feeling to gush from you. Inspire others. Keep moving. Be still. Consequently, if you cause a change, no matter how ostensibly insignificant, you have succeeded. Do not allow your talents, your soul, your being, to be squelched under the heel of the norm. Be not of the phantom majority, but of the ever shrieking minority. Blow some shit up.