Sometimes, late at night, when I’m driving home, I like to take the long routes. I go by the houses, picturing who lives there, and the mailboxes always seem to catch my eye. Sometimes, my vision makes me glance back at them making sure it’s not a person, randomly waiting in front of their houses. And sometimes, I pretend they’re all people. People waiting at the end of their driveways, frozen…just waiting. Some of them are waiting for a ride that is taking too long. The ride is taking them some other place, a place where their lives finally begin. Some of them, are waiting for the mailman. They’re waiting to greet him, as if he has known them his entire life. Maybe he’ll bring some sort of good news, some letter filled with the words of a college board accepting them to their dream school. Maybe it’s a love letter, a long lost letter. Maybe it’s a letter from a friend, or a part of the family, and they’re finally hearing from them again, It’s a letter that never comes. Or sometimes, I like to pretend they’re waiting for a vision, in their front yards. A vision of the future, of all they could be, a vision of what’s to come, what’s waiting for them. But the ride, the mailman and his mysterious letters, and the vision, it never comes. But the people mailboxes just keep waiting, frozen, patiently, for something to fix them. You know, they’re watching their lives pass by, me in the car speed past and wonder how they’re doing, if they’ll ever make it to their destination, if they’ll ever get what they’re standing there for, just because they’re waiting, they’re waiting so patiently, wondering if something will come to them.
My soul is at an impeccable state of calamity.
My body feels satisfied, sipping this cup of tea.
And the honey from the soothing drink,
it sits well in my indifferent heart, it doesn’t sink
And I know what I have to do,
I know I have to read, I have to write some papers too.
And I know I’ll get it done, I know that’s true
But where are you,
where are you?
In the very “worst” of situations in life, or so they seem the “worst” at a given time, one can decide on three ultimate decisions. The first decision causes the person to dwell on the situation at hand in a dramatic way. Essentially, most people believe this is the only decision one can make. This decision, leaves no imagination of the future, it causes the person to suffer from anger and pain, hurt and distrust. This first decision revokes any possibility of becoming content again, and therefore blinds any other decision. The second decision is usually made by those who are seen as strong to others, but they are actually suffering even more. This second decision fends off any hurt, believing the hurt, pain, and anger are just made-up emotions. It holds the dweller from the first decision to be very foolish. The third decision convicts a hero in one’s own story of life. The third decision keeps three very important elements of time in mind: the past, the present, and the future. The person who makes the third decision kicks the situation to the past, focuses on the present, and only believes the best for the future, and therefore uses all other elements to make sure of it, learning from their experiences, one at a time. And so in the “worst” situation in your hand at this very moment, it becomes a necessity to never settle short, and look to the third decision, of which is very capable for anyone.
One, But Not Alone
I take a walk on the pavement through my favorite weather. I watch the leaves fall off the trees, letting the trees begin anew. The cold air flows through my sinuses and I continue to walk, breathing fresh air in and hardships out.
I forget the saving season and start to see people, walking together. They walk in two’s, talking, laughing, whispering, flirting. I am on my own. They share a kiss, a hug, inspiration and motivation. I stare, but I move along.
I walk alone, I walk as one. That’s how it always has been. Instead, I watch the leaves kiss the ground, the branches of the trees hug one another, and I feel inspiration and motivation inside of me.
I have always walked as one, seeking independence through my own soul, and nature through the reality of the season.
Most people walk in two’s, but I walk as one.
Some people are just an illusion, a belief or idea we become infatuated with. We paint them on a canvas in our minds. They become our best interest, our favorite artwork. It eventually fades, and the illusion isn’t what you thought it’d be. You lose the canvas because the image was painted with a color you cannot find anymore. You search and you search to complete it, to connect the image to your heart. One day, you realize the illusion is pushing itself away. The canvas remains in its place, a memory, an illusion. And you begin to wonder if you’ll ever let it go. Illusions are temporary but their marks are dangerous.
We Are the Generation of Awful Storytellers
I wanted to tell a story someday. A remarkable truthful story of an experience. Perhaps a story about a conversation with a friend or a foe. I wanted to tell you about my strengths, not my weaknesses. And I wanted you to believe it, I wanted you to believe in me.
I always want to listen to those around me. I want to hear their stories, and I’m sure a select few in my life have wanted to hear mine as well. But the one line I always hear coming out of my mouth, or someone else is “Did you really say that?”
"No not really."
I didn’t really say that because it would be too much, too wrecked, too awful, too odd to say, too heartfelt, too meaningful, too much…
Why can’t we just say how we feel when we feel it. It’s too easy to hurt someone else by things we never say, that’s why, but I just hurt myself more by not saying a word.
By keeping others safe I hurt myself.
I secure your happiness with a door that locks my own.
It’s awfully tiring.
I am the generation of an awful storyteller.
The human eye has always been one of the most extraordinary characteristics about the human body. When used to its full potential, the human eye can evolve their world within one glance. As babies, toddlers rather, whatever we saw was a mystery to be solved. A child simply looking at a wardrobe could trace back a memory to a companions house where other appealing things were seen in a different wardrobe. Everyone’s vision is different, and even if we don’t see eye to eye, we see things that have some kind of effect on us. Whether that effect leads to a memory or whether that effect leads to an emotional feeling, our vision triggers something else in our mind.
When I see you, I remember what I will always try my best to never be. When I see you, I feel pain and anger. A sort of pain you cannot stop because of the stereotypical unworthiness of youth. And I feel anger in a way that makes me want to spit at everyone in the world, like i did when I was little. Spit until I can’t breathe anymore. Can’t breathe anymore until I cant feel anymore. Can’t feel until I cant see.
Control your vision, it’s powerful. The secret to how the world has become so cruel, is the negatory conquering of the human eye.
One of the most overlooked objects in this world. It comes in any color, it comes in every size. 42% of industrial wood harvest is used to make paper. That’s almost half of the wood harvest. Used for boxes, projects, magazines, books, newspapers, stationary, and the list goes on and on. We crumble it up, we throw it out our car windows, we waste it, we write notes all over it, for no reason, we use a new piece of it when we’re not satisfied with the work on it.
And then you have humans. We make up 100% of the world’s population, and we’re created by, depending on your beliefs, a higher power or the evolution of science. We make the world go around. The difference? Well, sometimes, all you need is one human to make another feel like paper, crumbled up, and wasted away. So, perhaps we don’t all look into the facts of paper. We’re all wasted away, crumbled up, thrown out of people’s lives, written on because of our imperfections, and replaced as soon as someone thinks they can do better. Don’t throw me out your window, I promise I’ll give you a new color, a new size. Don’t write me off, just yet.
Jeans were originally invented in 1873. They became highly popular in the 1950s, mostly among teens. Today, they still are one of the most worn clothing items, globally. They come in many different kinds too, flare, boot cut, skinny, faded or or dark. Any style that matches yours—-there’s a jean for that. Americans spent $14 billion on jeans in 2004 and $15 billion in 2005. According to scientific evidence, most jeans fade. Some people argue that it is because of the washing, the many times the fabric endures a cycle, the cycle generally “exhausts” the fabric. Others, typically science-majors or mainly people requiring deeper evidence, argue that jeans fade because friction separates the fibers. In addition to washing, the indigo blue dye is separated amongst itself during a friction period. For the wondering, friction is according to the dictionary defined as a resistance encountered when one body moves relative to the other body with which it is in contact.
When I think of my old, faded jeans, I think of memories. They’re pretty well-known, kind of like jeans, yes. Everyone has a memory, even if you’re a day old, just maybe at that age they’re not held onto for quite as long. There’s a variety among memories as well. A recent memory, or and “antique” memory, or even a semi-recent memory. We all cherish a certain style too, some of us try our best to hold onto the past few years, and some of us, our youth. The only difference I found with my old, faded jeans, and my memories was the price. Memories are priceless, they either lie with me forever, or they escape my mind. And if they leave, a new one comes along—-priceless. If I could find a way to piece every detail in the memories I’ve lost back together-if I could find a way to stitch that indigo back together to make those jeans new again, well then I’d cherish this life so much more, for the memories it has given me. But my memories have faded, and my jeans have too, and so I guess I’ll have to keep fighting, buy more jeans, and make memories, a new.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.