Symbiosis

via Daily Prompt: Symbiosis

Symbiosis
Love:
The greatest type of symbiosis.

It is mutualism for humans, bringing out the best, the most positive traits and personal growth. It is the forces of natural goodness embodied. It is an interconnected, interdependent mess of chains and webs of energy.

This is how I would describe my love for you.

But don’t criticize me for turning an art into science. Love already is a science.

Don’t believe me? Consider:

  • The way your heart beats faster, faster than normal. (The average person’s heart rate ranges from 60 to 100 beats per minute.)
  • The way you can’t breathe and how you can’t inhale and exhale normally. Oxygen and carbon dioxide mingled.
  • The way your hands get damp; homeostasis gone wrong.
  • The way your neurons continually send repeating electrical impulses: the One, the One, the One, the One, the One.
  • The way your body is flooded with serotonin.

And with all of these formulas and numbers, these facts and laws, I still cannot sum up my love for you.
(Infinity.)

Musings #2

Musings #2
(I don’t know what this is. An open letter? To whom?)

Is it too strange to say that I think of death rather frequently? The shadow in the back of my mind, that which haunts subtly and silently. It is there, waiting always, to catch me unguarded. Perhaps, all of these thoughts is too much for my own good, but this is how life, or death, goes: ever present even without my notice.

There are people I know who used to be, they who once were but no longer are, and I should have missed them before they were to be missed. I was blind to the signs of our fraying bonds, our weakening ties. I was blind to the few precious chances I was given to tell you all how much I valued you. So very much. I apologize, but I know that I am too late, and it is already lost to wherever these broken things go. This taste of regret becomes less and less foreign for me.

Will the end come for me just as suddenly? These lives cut too short, the unexpected final breaths, a seed of despair secretly nurtured into fruition. It happened and happens all too fast.

All too often, all too soon, life ends, and here, I am left behind to contemplate, observe, and mourn another new emptiness.

Yellow Tape

via Daily Prompt: Yellow

Yellow Tape
The first thing Anna notices when she gets home is the yellow plastic tape criss-crossing her front door. It stands ajar, swinging in the wind, as she clambers out of the driver’s seat. She remembers having locked it that morning before commuting to work, so why is it open now? Has there been a burglary? The local paper had mentioned a series of thefts, but her neighborhood was mostly made up of middle class families and retirees. The houses burglarized could barely be categorized as houses, maybe… “extravagant houses,” or (the better term would be) “mansions.”

The wind blows, and Anna’s brown hair whips about her face. The strands, along with the cold, sting her skin. She ignores it. Innumerable lengths of tape decorate her lawn, getting wrapped up around tree branches and littering the grass.

A police officer, previously overseeing the bustle of the law enforcement agents, walks up to her and introduces himself. He looks prepared to give bad news and calm her down—

But what exactly has happened at her home?

Wordlessly, he stares at her. (Incredulously or suspiciously? She can’t tell.)

“A murder.”

Musings #1

Musings #1
(I have another urge to write, but about what?)

The days seem to pass by both slowly and quickly; everything passes, and so we march on. This is life: briefly infinite and infinitely brief.

I’ll tell you of the girl I saw today. We sat across from each other, perfect strangers in this perfectly strange world, and I glanced at her, and her eyes met mine. We looked away, and we looked back two more times. I wonder where she is now and how she is doing. I’m probably just a single fleeting moment in her life, but I think I’m okay with that. All of these strangers, extras in the production of life—my own staging of it.

It’s peculiar to think that perhaps our threads touch but never quite intersect. Rarely they do. What would have happened if I decided to let them cross? Would my life be any different? It’s a thought to pull apart and stitch back together for another day. I know I should live in the present, but my mind can’t help but turn back the clock.

And now, I think, is a good time to tell you good night. These musings can wait for tomorrow; the light of day will do them good.

An Ode to Libraries

An Ode to Libraries
It is some sort of hallowed ground: this building of hushed voices and shelves of learning. The inscribed knowledge is neatly organized, open to all. But I am an intruder. I aim not to shatter the peace, the glass shards exploding outward to lay at my feet.

I dare not breathe nor speak too loudly. Let me be silent, my footsteps as fluid as my shadow, my presence as unobtrusive as the premature falling of leaves.

An intersection of the past, the present, and the future, this library is my sanctuary, where time meets and stops. I am granted asylum from the buzzing of everyday life, and I savor this type of peace, tasting it in my mouth, tapping it out on my thigh, breathing it all in.

Is this happiness or something more?

Thoughts on the Act of Writing

Thoughts on the Act of Writing
I will write this now and let the words flow out of me. My pen will bleed ink, liquid sorrow and beauty and experience and joy, and my red life will pour onto these white pages.
Perhaps I will write again about heartache that is not mine: it’s too romantic and fictional not to do so. Everyone knows pain, whether it be physical or emotional.
Or perhaps I will approach it from the opposite end of the spectrum and scribble about the initial act of tumbling down headfirst. Everybody is in love with love, after all.
The truth? I don’t know what to write about. Am I a bad writer if I sometimes lack inspiration? I hear all the time about how if I want to improve, I should be willing to work consistently. Yet, it shouldn’t feel like a chore…
And how do I write something new, a innovative concoction of words from my mind? Themes are universal and we constantly rewrite odes to all of these common concepts: death, friendship, pain, revenge, joy, and, yes, love (and many more, of course).
I’m looking for freshness.
Am I able to achieve such a quality?
I suppose we will see in the pieces to come.