What I Have Here Written

I have set out to change the world, to make an impact upon society, to ensure that my name will forever be etched in the annals of humanity. But though I might clearly view the destination, my mind is still shrouded in mist. My eyes see only immediate affairs, and my feet travel only familiar paths. Trudging through my quotidian life, I cannot seem to acquire the initiative to imbue each moment with purpose.


Why must I be confined:
—to the sleeplessness which haunts each muffled night?
—to the acquiescent torpor which seeps into each sleepwalked day?
—to the listless apathy which mutes each unvoiced thought?
—to the restrained passion which yearns for a clear purpose, strains against the dams of normalcy, and probes for a vector, a channel, a conduit through which I can flourish?

Sometimes I wish I could lead a normal life, shrug off the mantle of future leadership, and find contentment in mediocrity—but these moments pass quickly.

In less than a day, I will once again quietly assume my burdens. I will once again recall the monotony of tracing footprints. I will once again forget what I have here written.



We live in uncertainty.

Uncertainty: hamartia to adolescent hearts. The promise of a shared tomorrow is tempered by the nagging fears that a blink of sleep will take you away. That the frenzy of our youth will be spent and exhausted. That our capricious whims will leave us stranded, separated by inarticulate seas.

Our words need not supplant our kisses, but my lips will soon tire of mere capers. And yours will yearn once more to tickle my ears.

So teach me your mannerisms. Tell me your silly anecdotes. Show me your life—so that the flare of passion in this moment can mellow out into persistent embers.

Kiss and Tell

Her fingertips intertwine with mine in an almost painful grip. Her hair envelops my face, lightly brushing my flushed cheeks. Her eyes shine so brightly that they glimmer like blurred candles.

My heart quickens. I feel hers too, through the thin fabric of our clothing. Like a sunset’s celestial waltzers, we inch inexorably together. A swift peck on the ear. A nibble on the jaw.

The lightest caress of our lips.

But I know it cannot last. I know it with the certainty of a mariner watching the night sky, with the panic of a toddler lost in a crowded mall, with the resignation of a Friday night office worker careening toward that deadline.

We share a sigh, an ebb in the tide of endorphins coursing through our heads. And I draw her in closer.


Our Sense of Wonder

Condensation nuclei.
                Altocumulus castellanus.
Convection currents.
                Cumulus congestus.
Wind shear.
                Cumulonimbus incus.

What happened to our sense of wonder?



So utterly lost.

Glancing up from starched pages.

The lives ensconced therein still swimming before my eyes.

Are the hands before me any more real?

More real than the plot?



On the Way Home

Rainwater glistens on the coal-black streets.
—What will they think when I tell them?
Frenzied wipers whisk away freshly fallen beads.
—How should I introduce the topic?
The light stays obstinately red; my turn signal ticks.
—Will they still accept me?
Soft splashes and brief white glares herald each passing car.
—I stare ahead in silence.


Flock of Migratory Birds

Swooping, diving,
Dipping wingtips in unison
To bank.

Risky dodges
With fleeting feathery flaps:
Show offs.

As one
They catch a breeze
And soar.


Eyelashes in Sunlight

Iridescent like shimmering pearls.
Rippling like oil-filmed puddles.
Translucent like fragile fish scales.
Distorted like prismatic marbles.

All gone in a saccade.


Sunset in the Street

Bold inflexible lines vanish before you into tangerine-tinged horizons. Glints of steel posts—of marble pilasters—of glass rectangles—mirror the dying sun, flinging their scintillating rays onto the concrete under your feet. The reflections flicker—gleam—whisper.

Let the final dregs of warmth gambol past your face. Allow the wind’s invisible wails to dry your stinging eyes. Feel the modulating rush of passing cars.

Lean forward into the cold. Taste it. Embrace it.


Problem Set

What creates an “us”?
The intimacy of physical contact?
Secrets exchanged in covert whispers?
Meaningful glances shared at awkward moments?
The tacit understandings that arise from mutual telepathy?

Please submit a research proposition to investigate the various aspects of this problem. Be certain to describe the steps of a laboratory method that can be conducted to quantify results.



I will be embarking on a great journey this year—and it appears that my sails are already slack. The doldrums, it appears I have reached. Before I have even begun.

Yet mischief brews a murky potion. The horizons ahead froth and roil in dusky turmoil. This upcoming storm looks rather ominous, and I am beginning to doubt that my woven threads can withstand its keen gusts.

But survive they will. For these care-worn canvasses are not the products of hasty weaving. They are not the discarded products of reckless machinery, nor the delicate handiwork of unprepared dilettantes. These heavy tarps hold the cumulative brine of years of sailing—and many years will yet pass before they wear out. Care has been taken in tying each knot, in intertwining each strand of warp and weft. Care, in preparation for such futures as this.

The wind still promises to be fickle, but I defiantly stare ahead. This year, I have but one resolution: