“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” -Shakespeare

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
What name is true when others label you?

I used to believe that others knew me better than I knew myself. The words they used to call me by, their opinions freely shared, spoke truths beyond my understanding of who and what I was.

For years I let them cover me like nametags peeled from paper, stuck like glue written down in permanent ink, these words marked my soul forever. Who am I? What am I? I’d better listen closely for I’m not sure I know the answer.

Shy, misunderstood, timid and unnoticed. Hidden in my mother’s skirts, afraid of the worlds’ vision. A child emerging into youth gangly, awkward and gross. Braces and high waters, growing pains and short shirts. How does anyone move through this stage without a pimpled face? Insecurity melted any chance I had of growing past a crush in my English class.

Shy and timid and so naive, what on earth could I learn in college? Pressure to be an adult and now I’m called a “young woman”. Labels never shed or changed, just thicker levels of stickers covered me in their layers. Insecurity lingered burried by a more acceptable name like silly aloofness. Scared, timid and overly cautious, unable to remove the label on my forehead announcing to the world that my name was clearly foolish. Everyone knows that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Long term relationships held power to define the spaces that felt new and foreign, too scary to name myself I eagerly accepted all the names which he created. Please tell me who it is you see, do you want me or her? Please define and confirm for I’m still not sure, am I me…or am I her?

Weak and scared, incapable. Awkward, young and dull. Naive, unalluring, can’t I just be better? Unattractive, damaged, unworthy of love and affection. Try harder not to be the girl who is untouchable, sad and lonely. Who would ever want a girl like her, she’s just so utterly boring. Excel to success everyone is looking, perfection is your mission. Disappointing girl, keep trying then, just fake it till you make it.

These name tags I peeled from their sturdy backing to adorn my skin forever inked in, I didn’t realize their poison. I drank them in so readily, quite desperate to belong. Perspective skewed from the outside in, I had no filter no source to know truth from within, no balance no counter to question and ponder, am I this girl? Do I know her at all? Are these lies or truth I never thought to know what belongs and what can come off.

Peeling layers off of skin is quite painful when it’s slow. The work to find out what is real hurts worse then a bandaid ripping off. It feels more like a burn unsoothed by salve, left chapped, raw, naked and cold exposed to the wind. Vulnerable to the fear of not knowing who I am. Without a name without labels I’m a nameless “Jane Doe”, identity unknown. A girl on the street, alone and terrified of all the things she could be.

In the absence of voices yelling shame, bitterness, hate and negatives I could hear in the silence nothing more than the pitter pat of my feet as I walked to a tree and sat underneath to ponder and question what is it that’s me, really really me, what am I called?

I picked up my marker and tentatively wrote all the things I could think up to call myself by, trying them on, they all felt miss sized not fitting right and sounding stuck on my tongue. It took me a while to work past the fear, to call myself things that rang with some cheer. I found worth and value as I looked at myself. Kindness and joy coupled uncertaintly with integrity and grit. That seemed hard to write down without the shadow of pride sneaking up from the old to rob me of the right to be confident and strong, and able to define myself as I see fit for who I am and what I still long to be.

The names I wrote down on those tags are all me, but I chose this time not to wear them as skin. I know what I am in the actions I live, I don’t need them to stick on the outside of my skin. They shine out of my face because they found their place filling from within.

I’m still learning to evaluate and accept words from others and how they might fit. Do they ring true, are they false? Are they old or so new I haven’t grown into to them yet? I need experience and time to trust that I’ve made friendships who know the value of a word and I trust them to help me evaluate the names to shed and the ones to keep.

I know who I am, but I’m still evolving, my names keep changing, adding. So many spaces I still struggle to see, buried beneath old stickers that wreek they need air to breath before they can heal from the past. I’m trusting others to write with their own markers the words that they feel I should know about myself. It’s unnerving, scary and often so funny to hear friends share their nicknames for me, learning I’m “colorful” is new and a weird one, it bounces around with laughter I’m not sure where it lives.

Perhaps a rose by any name would still smell so sweet, but I wonder would it know its own softness or believe in its beauty? Would it revel in its delicious scent, or understand its purpose as a symbol of romance if it wore a name tag that permanently inked it as “Thorn”? What’s in a name, do you know your own?

My life feels divided, like a giant curtain pulled across a stage separating the performance from the viewers, and I’m the Emcee living on both sides of the curtain.

I have so many circles of breadth and depth. Mere acquaintances just shy of strangers, to family members and friends. Some closer in the past, some dearer who aren’t near, while others live so close by but still have to be scheduled. Spontaneous events don’t seem to exist within 5 feet of my house…I always have to go out.

Like a machine in forward motion I have to fill the gas to keep moving round the circles. Catching up with real conversation, treating others with importance, caring about what’s new or old it almost always feels like reporting. Like a boxing match we hit it around until the bell goes off repelling us back to our own personal corners.

Connecting in a moment, gone within a flash until the next time my calendar gives way to more rounds of connecting but still with timed rounds. Ding. Back to my corner called real life, the other side of the curtain where it suddenly feels like no one else exists.

Time for myself goes by scheduled just as much. Hit a workout class, walk the dog, run errands till I’m done with people, with crowds with traffic lights of red that never seem to end block after block. Surf the net, watch a show, read a book or cook until finally it’s time to just go to bed. Spending time reflecting on these places of life I find so boring. Pass the spice.

I can call and text someone, but the effort seems impressive. The snow is falling dreary and freezing I’m not leaving to meet anyone which leaves me here alone… wait have I turned into a hermit? Without a plan in the revolving schedule of 1 on up to 20, I find it’s just me again with time on my hands filling my life on this empty side of the curtain.

How to change this atmosphere, this internal hibernation. To fill this space with joy and laughter, sharing the mundane space of my continuous existence. I’ve been running ahead with thoughts and plans chasing dreams that seem to have stopped. So much effort to put into crafting up a life that I’m solitarily in charge of everything… I’m feeling tired of starting over.

Social events, new clients, activities and outdoor excursions, planning and commiting to people, places and things but now when I stop I hear the pin drop, I’m tired of extraverting. Working with everyone’s schedules to coordinate a date. If I break for just a day, the revolving stops on silence. To make the noises become more than one I have to get up again. No one wants an invite called “hey do you want to come sit?” Why does it feel like everyone is always so busy…

This life is shared and holds such meaning for me to know others and to share, feeling connected, why does it feel like work to try and keep it open..the curtain is closed and I’m too tired to keep it open, I already have to many jobs.

Changes to make, sure I can see something must be around the corner. But action for now has perplexed me, I’m unable to solve my problem. Momentum has paused for me and yet I see it spinning rapidly with friends and others surrounding me. Its quiet and calm, not angry or pressing, just dull and rather lonely. I guess I must just wait until whatever it is that’s coming shows up in the mail with directions on how to solve this boring, yet consuming drop in momentum.

There’s a place I know called purple. I find myself soloing its borders often.

So many questions in a day. How was your day? Is not usually asked. The answer brushed on fine, great, or maybe just ok. A simple phrase in passing, not one for unpacking in all the layers of boring, drama, trying or failing.

How do you feel? Fine, great or maybe just ok. Sometimes that description isn’t enough, just a layer of sand easily blown off. Leaving the crusty layer exposed, the real answer regarding my day buried below like a rock to deep to move, the effort not worth the pick of an axe. What mark can it make on so heavy a load. But how do you really feel?

The thought of the answer looks like a white board empty of choices. Blank, empty inside my head, how do I feel?? I’ve no idea! How can I list all the things that I feel, I’ll be carried away in a flood with no warning.

How to describe the weight of the world that’s sat upon my shoulders, the sorrow in my bones that ache with reminders, the fear that taunts me from the edges of a day in darkness, or the burden of adulting that chatters to me that I’m failing.

Ok take a break let’s forget about feelings, describe a Bear, that’s easy, he’s furry. Cute from afar, yet utterly terrifying. He sleeps in a cave, catches fish for dinner, romps on the ground and climbs high in a tree. He eats berries, opens cars scavenging for snacks, harassing campers who believe he should be fed. He’s big and hairy, multi colored with levels of scary from basic black to brown and then there’s the grizzly. If feelings were bears I’d know how to share them in simple terms using words called nouns with modifiers, a superlative or two with a verb thrown in for some actionable drama.

Now let’s try another with a more complicated answer, describe to me Purple: a color mixed from blue and red. That’s all I’ve got, it’s really the end, I can’t elaborate with verbs, superlatives or actionable agendas. My feelings feel purple, thats what they are with no words to explain, no thoughts can equate, feelings fill their own space with too much nothing left to say. An unexplainable, lost, wordless place mixed up in a fight between blue and red, painted confusion between my gut and my head. Knots tangle, spiderwebs breed, focus is lost I can’t make peace. I sit here alone in a field of mines etched in crayon ashy in dusk, as purple descends into dark casting out the sun.

Does anyone else know this place of feeling alone stuck with feelings that forget to go home? Can you find me and help me, I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know what I need or even how to ask. I don’t know these feels, the heals or the story. I’m overwhelmed with no thoughts and no words, just buried in layers of violet, magenta, orchid and plum, iris, mulberry, lilac and mauve.

I think what I need in this sea of periwinkle is an eye that sees, a hand that grips, an ear that listens and an embrace that holds. Unfolding, unknowing, trusting and growing out of this undefinable cluster of amethyst.

Do you know this place called purple? Can there be a code, an SOS, to hold space for the one whose entered its zone. A code that says you’re not alone, I see you, I’ve got you, you need not explain. No drowning, no falling, no endless alone-ing, no labeling, no judging, no out of time warning. Just a friends’ simple knowing that my address is crimson until all of these feels have felt their way out, a 💜 will do to mark this spot, shared space enough to know I’m not all I’ve got.

I love camping. The simplicity of life found being lost in the middle of nowhere, surrounded in the silence nature brings, with views that embrace me in my tiny existence.

Out there I’m no one in particular. I don’t belong anywhere nor to anyone. I exist outside of time. No bills to pay, no lists, no agenda, no interruptions, unreachable with nothing to miss. “Real” life hits pause while I run around free in a parallel universe living the life that feels most real. A break from reality.

Perspective realigns with the breaths I take. Time slows down matching pace with the sun waking me just early enough with his smiling presence through my tent.

Playing hide and seek with him through the shadows he casts throughout the day as I adventure under his watchful eye. Adventuring with friends, learning to trust while facing myself. Sharing my fear, my joy, my need, my whole self with no shame cast in this precious space called friendship.

As he sets in his retirement for the night, the sun trades his watch with the moon ending the shadow games with the flashiness of royalty. Surrounding me is a sky adorned in flickering diamonds that shine brighter as darkness thickens pressing down around them making me feel whole and yet so insignificant in contrast.

Company around a campfire blankets me against the cold with shared laughter, stories and songs. Warmth spreads through my heart, loneliness can’t be seen or heard cast off to live outside the circle of fire, he is unknown here. Memories are shared and compressed, binding us together in a moment otherwise lost to time. Duplication creates a depth called history and I want to call it my future.

The day closes on itself and sleep beckons the embers to hush their crackling as we pull apart dividing from a collection of one, we multiply back into selves shuffling off to bed by the light of the moon. Solitude encases me in yellow tent fibers of color matching the sunset as I cocoon myself to sleep alone in my tent alone with the silence of night. Full and found in the middle of nowhere, content in my feelings of simple insignificance swallowed up in this life so full of significance.

I just want to sit here
Still in this moment
It won’t last forever
In a blink it will be gone

A second of contentment
Joy and anticipation
This moment, it’s rare
Yet so desperately sought for

One moment, so precious
Wearing satin and lace
I don’t want to share
Left alone with its caress

Sharing it might change its color
Like a leaf in autumn
Transforming over night
Dropping and falling, hitting bottom

Or it could squeeze me like a panic
Locking me up tight
Others with their opinions
Holding me with straight-jacket might

This moment is mutable
Shiftable, damagable
Like a wrinkle to an iron
With nothing left to say

If I think at all I’ll blow it away
Like a wrecking ball through a window
The bigger picture gone with a crash
Replaced by shattered glass

This moment feels of folly
Like a school girl’s joy
Naive innocence dreaming of
What its like kissing boys

Just here, just now
My heart’s single beat
My breath inhaled pauses to hold this second for one…maybe two more

Absent of thought with no expectation
Alone in a moment meant just for me
I am caught up with living this second
Present

Block.

Brick. Stone. Rock. Mortar. Cement. Stackable. Fallible. Endless. Pointless.

I’m in a tangle. I don’t know what to write. So many spaces, so many voices, too much chatter and running about. In the echo of pressure I’ve placed upon myself I can’t hear myself stop, I don’t know where I’ve dropped. I can think all I want, for hours and hours, but when can I feel? Well not now, it’s already morning!?

Pressures are endless, abounding in process, where are the lines I’ve learned to draw. Boundaries are healthy, but do they push pause on my personality… or help me with flaws?

I know a few lessons, the things I need to keep, but they’ve been muted and clawed out, give me a minute…my brain fell asleep. Too much knowing without feeling, I can’t seem to grasp… it’s purple surrounding, I’m drowning… no I’m not.

I’m busy. Confused. Drawn out and infused with ideas and passion left for later, no space or time left for me to be…bemused. Past tense you have found me…I thought I was present, but no. It’s past, you’ve marked it before I knew when the moment had… past.

No time for that either, where have I gone? Who am I? Extroverted, overscheduled, burned up or run out? Too busy for silence or unable to hear? Stop all this nonsense I just can’t catch up!

Stop it fall! Colder weather I’ve only just caught up to sunsets and sunscreen, dresses and friends… why must you torment me with sweaters, pending snow and oooohhhh the dark mornings?

I thought I knew me? I thought we we’re good!? What am I learning? What is it that I’ve so misunderstood?

I can’t find myself, I’m lost in a crowd. How do I hear my voice when I’m scrolling and trolling unable to pause…

Remember the girl who went out in the morning? With her dog or her bike when life felt so boring? She chased down her thoughts with footsteps imploring iambic pentameter to match the marching of a voice so steady in beat it made all the cobwebs un-stick and fall out. Thoughts of importance, direction and focus left after the push of sweaty exploding. Life was small yet easy to see, when did it get buried and so damn heavy? Balance you’re a label, peel-able and un-serving. With no master you flee as life plays its game.

I miss the girl with the solitary voice, who didn’t question the mission but chased the sun. I’ve been caught up in something…I can’t quite describe, but I miss that girl that I used to be, who was intrinsically fun and knew how to be…

Herself

When I was 7 I spent most of my free time riding my bike by myself. It was pink and teal with peddle brakes, and never took me farther than the sidewalk around the block and the dirt hills in my front yard. I remember riding down the driveway onto the dirt hill as fast as I could until I’d reach the end and have to come back up. With no option of an easier gear to assist the climb, it was always a hike my bike back to the top for a repeat joy-fest. After a few rounds, the climb always wore out the joy and I’d find something else to wander off to.

Nowadays I’ve upgraded my joy-fest to riding down hills on a mountain bike, only I’m not nearly as fast or as fear free as I was at 7. I’ve never been an athlete and have always shied away from competition, content to just be where I am when I am. Where I live, mountain biking is a legit sport and most people I see on the trail are out training for a race, flying past me with mad endurance, or exuding ownership of a trail with utter seriousness and I feel some strange pressure to measure up. I find myself avoiding group rides because I’m out paced, overly apologetic about my lack of skill, excusing myself on every corner and biking like it’s my first time out. When did I get so locked up in my head about failing at trying to play by someone else’s rules? Without realizing it, my head signed up to compete leaving the rest of me unprepared and apologetic for my lack of training instead of finding my joy.

Riding by myself I still struggle with technical skills. Managing my speed, tackling rock drops and spicy switchbacks, I still hike my bike more than I want to. Sometimes the struggle is really more in my head, I lack commitment and just stop peddling saying “I don’t want to”. Buried in a battle my mind takes over as coach yelling at me for failing to match up in this competitive game telling me I’m “not good enough”, “too tired? Your not strong enough!”, “Imposter why are you out here!?” Where did all that come from, looking around I see no one standing there, whose voice is this? I no longer feel like trying.

Flying down a hill coming up on a blind corner I tense, what’s coming next? I can’t see around is there a rock or a drop, or just a tight turn? Too many questions it’s time to react. Brakes locked up in micromanagment I slow down choking the momentum I need to make it around the bend. I’m too slow, filled with more tension, my vision fails I’m now near sighted. Losing the trail ahead I search for something to see finding myself locked eyes with the boogey man standing right in front of me. Dressed up in a costume he looks like a cliff, and oh hell, I’m about to go down to meet him. Panic. Eject. Redirect. I’m so far from where I want to be, instead of riding a bike, I’m neck to neck with a tree and it’s not true what they say, you can forget how to ride a bike.

Look where you want to go, not where you don’t. Simple advice for biking, but not always so easy to live by. I tend to live on the right side of caution, throwing in some risk here and there, just enough to feel like I’m managing my life well. Thinking I know where I’m going most of the time. But lately life has reminded me that I am not in charge and has thrown danger and risk in my face without waiting for my permission. Like riding my bike into a tree, I’ve not handled it so well. Opting for “control” I’ve become overly reactive forced past the vision of knowing how to be proactive. What am I looking at? What am I chasing? Where am I going with my life standing still? I didn’t sign up for a competition and yet I’m judging myself with race objectives instead of being my 7 year old self. I need to recalibrate and put some things down.

1. Say yes again to chasing some fun, instead of “no” because there’s too much to get done.

2. Pushing through hard places is not the same as fighting with myself.

3. I do not have to perform according to someone else’s goals or adopt them as my own in order to feel a sense of accomplishment. I am more than capable at creating my own.

4. I am bigger than the boogeyman.

5. I forgot how to be present with myself, and lost my sense of place and time. Stop running and just sit a while.

6. The future is hard to “see” without goals and dreams, I need something to chase.

7. Micromanaging fear serves only one purpose, choking out perspective and sight of the bigger picture.

8. Friendship and partners are important and necessary for sharing the joy-fest and the boogeyman, learning to build trust and depend on them is hard, but without them things continue on just the same.

9. Acceptable risk isn’t always productive, keeping small and defined inside a comfort zone is not the box I want to live in.

10. Bike with goals, but live like I’m 7.

Once upon a time there lived a maiden so fair, with long blonde hair tied back in a braid she spent all of her day out upon the cliffs. Climbing and sending brought joy to her heart and from dawn to dusk she could always be found climbing up and up chasing her goal to catch up to the sun. Higher and higher unafraid of falling, she never looked down content being lost among the clouds. Never quite alone while climbing so high she needed a catch, with a partner at the ready nothing could detain her desire for the height.

One day she stumbled upon a cliff jutting out from the sea, and desperate to seek a new kind of knowing she found herself alone totally free soloing. Exhilerated by change she realized how boring her life had become with all the old knowing. The thrill of being alone on a climb, no catch at the ready she felt quite sublime in her boldly executed independent climb. Feeling so free she moved for a hold, unexpectedly falling she didn’t see it coming. Down into the sea her body went crashing, the waves over her head filled her with utter terror and dread. The current grabbed at her, pulling her down deep into the depths with such fierce aggressive pressure. What is this place, what are these feelings, so new and foreign, maybe this is death. With pounding suppression the waves hit the shore pushing her deeper down to seas floor. Just out of reach with no move to make, no thoughts for escape, no air to breath, no partner to catch her here beneath the wake, she closed her eyes to the fear, this is the end she thought to herself, “I’m not going to make it, I’m going to drown”.

A pull at her heel and a tug at her sleeve she felt buoyancy return as she rose up to breath. Gasping and coughing she made it to shore. Looking around for a sign to ease her confusion, she pondered her bewilderment of how she emerged alive and still here. Splashing nearby reflected in sun a silver tail fin was waving and jumping in fun. The maiden perplexed yelled out to the fish “where did you come from and how did you know that I was downing out there, lost and alone? The depths are scary, so foreign and unknown!”

The fish replied with a lightness of tone “the depths only frighten those who don’t know how to navigate the darkness and fear the unknown. I swim in those depths each and everyday. I know when the tide comes in feelings get big, pressing and pulling I feel the need to swim. But in its time the moon beckons the waves away, and along with the tide the pressure subsides and the feelings and fear simply float away. I’ve learned how to be a fish in the sea, swimming in peace face to face with the fear found within the murky depths. I understand that for humans trying to swim while holding your breath can be rather appalling. Living up high on cliffs as you do, I’m sure the fall into the depths was terrifying and alarming. Would you like to swim with me? To breath beneath the depths to discover their peace? Take a breath, jump in and hold on to me, I’ll teach you to swim, not alone in the dark. You’ve learned to share the highs of life climbing with a catch, now it’s time to share the depths without a security net. Life is richer and fuller with the highs and the lows, but only when you learn to trust that you can share both.”

And that was the day when mermaids came to be.

Spring hits like a fever rolling by on a breeze fresh from snow, its chill evaporates playing tag with the sun. Floral fragrance tickles noses with a simple sneeze, accruing tissues, red noses and too much achooing. Sunsets expand layered in soft light, painting promise in clouds written across the sky like a banner proclaiming daylight will reign longer than the night. The birth of a season so fresh and so new, filled to the brim with expectation and desire, what is this presence, what is its name? The fever hits hard with its bustling contagion, gaining ground touching others pulling fast with momentum now called Summer.

The world is on fire, heating up and on the move. Plans and vacations, family, time to be with friends. Thunder and lightning battle all afternoon, while fireworks rain from the sky the whole month of July. Chase the cool submerged in water, float or boat, beg a friend to use the pool. The days are longer and hotter on paper, with so much to fit in, one blink goes unnoticed until, wait…school starts again. Is it over so soon? How can this be? Summer, like youth, felt so immortal, but now following spring the fever does out.

The leaves struck with realization they are not evergreen are blinded by shock that their season is over. Changing costumes of color to crispy red, poppy yellow and burning orange, they light up the forest in one final performance. Viewers stand in line hopeful to catch such a higly reviewed show captureing its essence so perfectly on camera. Showered in applause, the show goes on until the wind pulls the curtain in a final bow. With nothing left to see the light, like the leaves bows out to the night. The moon wears his crown as time settles down, chilling the air warrants a change in attire. Boots, beanies, socks, pants and hoodies bundle up under blankets, cocooned next to fires. Bears give in leaving the forest to hibernate while nearby snow flurries accumulate. Life slows down, plans form after dark, where did the day go, it feels to late to go out.

Winter is here, fingers are numb it’s quiet out. Not a sound to be heard from the flakes falling from the sky. The streets are colored the same as the ground, a blanket of white sandy pebbles bundles the world. The sky sets pink as stars peek out between low clouds shaded with grey. Cold sings its song with breaths like steam pouring out of a factory both day and night. The Holidays are over another year has gone. Winter sets in always feeling too long.

Where does time go running off so fast. Spring tasted so new, so fresh and young. Caught up in all its joy like riding a bike, I’m sure I’m still seven, how did it vanish? Summer was here, I remember it’s freedom. It tasted like 16 and a first time drivers driver’s license, with wind in my hair and sun on my skin, driving with windows down no thought as to where, only to leave, to feel free just to go…anywhere.

An unexpected change in the weather, I’m unprepared in my desperate need for a sweater. Shouldn’t I know this by now, every season comes the same, I definitely remember this one. Be prepared for a blizzard, but don’t sweat from the heater, wear layers of outfits and think it all through. So much planning and effort, adulting feels harder making me long for the summer while the snow keeps on falling. The winter chill can be boring as I reflect back on the year.

No matter the number I find it’s the same, where is time going? Three months of equal sharing and yet I hear them yell, seasons rebelling against the clock reminding me to stop and think…a year moves to fast without any ink. An ink blot to mark a moment – otherwise lost to time – pinning it to memory by pen or with photography.

Memories so precious defy season and time, marked upon their page rendered in endurance long enough to last a single lifetime.

Where have all the adults gone?

I find myself puzzled and seriously flabbergasted that somehow I’ve replaced the grown ups I used to know. I was the kid, worried about myself and the focus of adult worries, pondering my own future and all it held. The growing up was still before me with maturity and the lessons hoped for to define, enrich and shape my character.

I grew up when I wasn’t looking. Faced forward I still taste the future the same as I did at 18, still slightly terrified of the outcome. But one day I looked over my shoulder and unexpectedly I saw my face in the mirror and it shifted. It wasn’t just my face anymore, but my mom’s. Staring slack jawed in awe face to face with myself…myself “the adult”. Whoa I’m “grown”.

Worries about health and growth turned upsidown, the focus now has fallen on my parents. Complications, hesitations choke up the visible future, its painted with new colors, colors I hadn’t expected. How can it be time to worry on such things, to fetter or ponder becoming an orphan at some point in my life.

Life isn’t painted with dreams and rainbow colored fantasies of what I want and what could be. Dreams still populate but come wrapped in responsibilities. Like a bowl full of jelly beans some tasting so sweet leaving me desperate to have just one more sugary treat, until whoops the wrong color on my tongue passing unseen through my fingers, fills my mouth with the bitter taste dread, disgust and regret.

Mortality comes forward like the sun out at noon, casting its shadow before me and spinning tight circles around me. I cannot ignore his hovered presence as his steps follow closer shading and embracing those around me. I long to go hide from his face beneath a tree, but the sun keeps its time and he always seems to find me.

The ripples go out, and suddenly they stop. It’s unnerving in its closeness, unknown or expected all fall out the same, wielding such exactness, simply The End. Loss tastes the same as it strikes the match, bitter jelly beans poured down the hatch. Someone has left. There’s nothing but pain.

I can’t help but wonder what time is up against. Does it know it’s own name? Does the clock just tick on oblivious to its last tock, or is it all just a joke a lost bet in a game. What comes next? They seem younger and younger, but maybe I’m just older.

I can pack that space full of the ugliest fear, like a canyon greedy with thirst drowned in a monsoon. Crawling into a hole and living so small, shell shocked and exposed terrified of the pain. What’s coming up next, is it my turn or hers? Someone I love, or another one of yours?

When did I get here, an adult tasting the end pressed questioning in this terribly dangerous space. My innocence lost, I’m just like them, the ones on the other side of this life, but not quite I still have some time. Time left to live between 9 and 12 before the clock stops on this round. Time still to count out it’s worth faced forward despite fear of the pain of possible loss. To truly feel the grief stains left by those that I’ve loved, and hope that when my clock runs out, the ones I will leave have my stain on their heart.