The Boy.

It took us a while to get to this point. We traveled long, we traveled far. We made sacrifices. We lost more than we gained. Finally, we were there. We made it. Our travels had been worth it. For we were there. And the old man, was going to give us something that we needed, to make our lives better. We looked at each other with smiles on our face and waited for him to say something.

We were in his cabin, his cabin was confusing, because it wasn't nice at all. In any way, not even in an old wise way. There was a shocking amount of underwear hanging around. There were plates with molding food on them, and a lot of flies and other bugs, of types I had never seen, hanging around his place. He was dressed in a pink housecoat. Or at least, the patches that weren't brown from stains whose origins I choose not to speculate, were pink.

He took out a box. The box was filled with cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a match. And he sat in a old brown chair. We could see his junk hanging out. It was hard not to look. Then finally, after some scratching and adjusting. He spoke:

"I have a constant vision in my mind that haunts me. There is a boy, and he has long sandy hair, and a t-shirt and shorts on. He's caught in some type of storm. And, in truth, I do not know what kind of storm. The backround of my vision is an unnatural white. He's clutching his breast to a pole. He's miserable and alone. His hair looks fantastic in the wind. And that's all I see. Whenever I close my eyes, or if I just get lost in thought, this image comes to me over and over. I don't know what it means."

Then he politely asked us to leave.

We assumed that we wasted our time. That there was no wisdom there. We thought maybe we got the wrong cabin. He had just wasted our time.

Years later, my travel companion, whom I had not spoken to in as much time. Called me.

"Hey."

"Hi?"

"I was just wondering."

"Yeah?"

"When you close your eyes now. Or get lost in thought"

"I see the boy."

"Okay."

Hate.

There was so much hate in the air, it was hard to breathe.

Someone was manipulating someone, someone was accusing someone of something. Someone was purposefully doing it, while being completely unaware at how horrible the behavior was. Someone was so overcome with hate, anger and fear. That they didn't know that everyone around them was trying to love them. So she deemed the love that they gave her, inadequate and empty.

She thought that they were doing to her, what she was doing to them. When people are blinded by their hate, anger and fear, they only see themselves. When someone was kind, she waited for the catch, when none presented itself. She made one. She would spend days of manipulation in order to create one. She would make something out of nothing. Or she would take love, and talk about how selfish it is. Because, love makes you feel good.

So we're all hypocrites.

This writer wishes this was fiction. This writer wishes that this was just one person.

It's not just one person.

He hated himself so much, that there was no comprehension that he had value. That his value was not as quantifiable as others. That his value was his smile, his laughter and his joy. He didn't know his value because he never learned to express those things. Hate can lead to something that feels like power.

Hate is not a power, it's a force. It's a force that lives in all of us, that leads to an action of negative value. All actions of negative are pointless, because they go backwards instead of forward. They move against the goodness of the world. The actions of hate lead to more hate, hate has no point. So the actions are pointless.

That's why they hate, they are afraid of having a point. So they make sure that they don't. They hate. Hate keeps life, and lives pointless.

That's as far as this writer can understand it. That's as far as this writer is willing to try.

It's impossible to write too much about hate it seems. Since it's pointless, no matter what, whenever one tries to write about it. There is a realization that you're writing about nothing. There is no point. It's just hate. It's a waste of time.

Pink Elephants. A memory.

" I was reading something the other day, and they found an actual pink elephant!"

"No they didn't!"

"Yes they did! I read it in a magazine!"

"Which one?"

"Cosmo!"

I was clearly lying, but I was ten years old. So it was okay. I don't think that counts as a white lie, or a bad lie. Simply, a stupid lie. Serving no purpose, other than an exploration of the boundaries of what you can get away with in conversation.

I'm better at it now. But still, that kid had to go home and ask his mom if she read that there was a pink elephant is Cosmopolitan Magazine. That must have been a great talk for his mom.

"Mom, is it true they found a pink elephant?"

"No, who told you that honey? Pink elephants don't exist."

"A kid a school said he read it in Cosmo."

"They don't write about pink elephants in Cosmo honey."

"Oh, okay... Mom?"

"Yes?"

"What do they write about in Cosmo?"

Ha! I'm picturing the look on her face. Amazing.

I guess now you know what kind of kid I was. I miss those kinds of lies. The lies of adulthood tend to be so serious and believable.

Hard to navigate sometimes. You know?

I read somewhere recently that somebody hacked into a news network and reported a couple of explosions at the White House, where the President lives. It actually affected the stock market for the day.

The thing that I don't understand about it is; if you have the power to hack into a news network and report fake news. Why choose something something so horrible? I get that you're probably a special kind of asshole that probably has issues beyond my own understanding. But imagine the mass hysteria if CNN had reported the discovery of a pink elephant.

That probably would have stock market too.

What I am.

It's dark outside, because it is night time.

There is a chill to the night, but it does not bother me.

There is no wind.

I see shadows moving as I walk under the street lamp. The outline of a body.

As I continue to walk the shadow gets longer and longer, the darkness of it fades.

Slowly into nothingness.

Then, near the shoes, a new shadow begins. The shadow starts off so dark it seems alive.

Then it fades again, only to have a new one take its place.

From my sight, I can relate more of myself to the shadow, than I do to myself.

To me, a creature is moving along this street. Of which, I have no relation.

I am a glimpse of life. Only for a moment. Until I fade away.

I am not the creature.

The creature keeps moving, despite me, forcing me to move on.

To fade away and be replaced.

I don't have enough time, the creature is moving too fast.

But as I dissipate. I know what I am.

I am a shadow.

The Way of Things.

 In a small town in the north, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, and people will gather, and share in conversation what it is that they are looking forward to in their lives. Expecting parents will relax and look forward to the joy that will soon be in their lives. Children already with them, will run and play outside, imagining new worlds and dreams, never imagined before. New loves and old loves, will feel at peace with each other, refreshed and excited for the unknown future that will soon be a happy present. All because of the warm wind that comes with the change of the season. All of these things, and more, are known. And all of these things, and more, are expected.

It is the way of things.

This year though, there were no new loves, there were no expecting parents, there were no children running in the streets. There was nothing to imagine, there were no new worlds, or, the new worlds were too dark to imagine. The warm wind, blew it's warmth on the town. But, like a widow crying on her husbands coffin, it fell on deaf ears.

Somewhere far away from this place, for reasons beyond most of the residents understanding or appreciation. A small group of people made a mistake. Because of this mistake. The town was dying. There were no jobs, those that still had them could barely afford their modest hard working lives. And they didn't know what to do.

This had happened before, they had heard the stories, they had heard about the darkness that swept across their continent. They had seen the movies all about it. 

In remembering this time, some of the people knew that they had to band together, to work together, they had to form large communities, and work hard together to survive. To give, when there seemed that there was nothing else to give. To create a community of struggle, compassion, and understanding.

The last time this horrible type of mistake was made, they survived, the town survived. In the time of absolute darkness. Where there was no hope. The people shone at their brightest. Brighter than they ever had before, or ever have since.

This time when the troubles hit. Everyone seemed to gladly leave the town, give up on each other, and keep what was theirs. To share none of it. To give to no one. To make everyone fend for themselves.

Eighty years since the last one, the world had changed dramatically.

When the old man that spent his winter taking his tractor out and helping pull cars out of the ditch, lost his farm. He had nowhere to go. His family had long since moved to the city. No one in the town took him in, no one offered him a meal, let alone cash to be able to take a bus into the city. No one wanted to help him. No one felt that they could, or should.

When half of the teachers at the school were let go, they started a protest. No mothers or fathers came out in support. They were left in the cold, protesting an injustice, unheard, and uncared for. No one felt they could help them, no one thought that they should. They all had so much to worry about for themselves.

More and more people fell on dark times like this, more and more people were left on their own. To face, a dark world of loss, alone, with no home, dreams, or hope.

People forgot how the land was truly won. People forgot what really happened in order for so many, to have it so good. People forgot that those that stand alone, fall the easiest.

They forgot because, they were told to. People started calling each other lazy. Pointing fingers, and breading hate.

In towns across North America, there is a warm wind that blows through it every spring, people gather, but they don't talk. Expecting parents scowl at the behavior of others, afraid of the world that they are bringing new life into. Children, already with us, are no longer seen, and are especially not heard. They are inside, despite the warmth. They are imagining what they are told to. They are dreaming dreams that belong to someone else.  New loves, and old ones, will look at each other, doubtingly. Always afraid to lose each other, knowing that they could, at any moment. Afraid of a future unknown, that will become a present, despite themselves. All while a warm wind blows in. None of these things, and more, are known. And none of these things, and more, are expected.

It is the way of things.