The Hippocampus (Greek Firebird Bend)
Once long ago, there was a boy born to a rich Athenian family. He was named Castor and was foretold to be one of the wealthiest and most influential men in all the Mediterranean.
Many years passed and Castor had grown up to be handsome and strong. There was nothing more that he liked than sailing to the many different islands and isles that made up the greek empire.
One bright, early morning as the sun rose above the horizon, Castor caught sight of dazzlingly bright scales breaking the waves. Only lore had told of beautiful creatures like these, a horse with fins instead of legs and scales that shone brighter than any stone, a hippocampus. No matter how skilled and fast he sailed, Castor could not come close to the rare beauty. He chased it for what seemed like hours before it stopped at a reef that surrounded an island Castor has never seen before. Suddenly in front of his boat, the creature reared up and Castor caught it with a rope around its neck.
“Please,” the frightened animal pleaded, “ set me free and don’t kill me!”
“Kill you?” Castored echoed. “ Course not,” and with that, Castor cut the rope from the hippocampus’ neck.
“I thank you, and for your kindness, I shall give you this,” the creature
(Not Finished Yet)
I wish I could see him again,
More than anything in the world.
He haunts my mind with this desire to run,
Run to him like a lost child coming home,
A sheep to her shepherd.
But if I say him again,
I wouldn’t know what to say,
Because words only go so far,
And I can’t describe the pain in a million paragraphs,
Let alone a sentence.
His loss is like a pit in the back of my mind that I’m pushing away,
But his memory only makes it grow.
So if I ever see him again, I wouldn’t burst into a monologue,
Or speech of a thousand words,
I’d simply breath what I’ve been saying all along,
“I’ve missed you.”
Who am I, honestly?
Who am I?
I thought I was honest,
But I can't even recognize who I am beneath the lies,
I can't see the person under the "I'm fine..."s,
Or the shame of being hurt,
I would reach out,
Try to grab a life raft to stop me from drowning,
But how do I show people what's behind my mask if I don't even know?
Who am I after the trauma,
Who am I after the pain is gone,
And who was I before; how do I get back to her?
Who am I?
If she was ever one thing, she was elusive. I searched for her everywhere, going off tales of where she was seen last. I searched every shore, traversed every countryside, and scouted every skyline, but to no avail. Where is she? Collecting myself, I stand. I am in Paris now, walking through the lamp-lit streets, passing by crammed houses and conversations in cafés, but none of it matters. I am hungry, but not for food. I am tired, but do not need rest. And I thirst, but not for what water can give. I only need her.
As I am lost in thought, I find myself lost. I am standing on a bridge, leaves blowing from a tree behind me in the crisp autumn air. Looking down at the water, I see my obscured reflection in the passing river; I sigh and my mind once again wanders to her.
Taking a leaf on the ledge of the bridge, I hold it in my hands. So delicate and fragile, even more so than glass. Letting it float down, I watch it touch the water, creating ever-expanding ripples. One after another they fall, dancing on the water’s surface to glide away.
And then it hits me, a spark. Inside my soul, I feel a stirring, calling me forward. I am no longer searching, just living in the moment, taking it all in. My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I turn, and there she is in all of her glory. I am speechless.
“Hello,” she greets, her voice like an angel, “I hear you’ve been searching for me.”
She pauses, almost like she is waiting for me to say something, but nothing comes out. She giggles at my shock as if I hadn’t spent my life searching for more than a glimpse of her presence. Turning her attention back to me, she introduces herself.
“My name is Inspiration.”
Connection comes from atoms,
Far out in the cosmos,
Splitting like glass,
Becoming something bigger than itself,
And that's how all love,
Platonic, family, romantic,
That's how it came to be,
So when you go through life,
Feeling a pull in your chest towards something right,
It is the atom coming back together,
Coming back to make something beautiful.
Well, my day was going to crap. I honestly had good intentions for today, a plan. I would get up at 7, hit snooze until 7:30, and then sit at my computer and stare at the screen. That’s right, I’m a writer, so being frustrated all the time is part of the gig. Anyway, I am writing a murder mystery. I just can’t figure out the ending and how everything will come together.
So my craptastic day started with me waking up at 6:34. Rough night, so I knew there was no hope of getting back to sleep. After lugging myself out of bed, I went to go make myself breakfast but there was no milk. Great. What is cereal without milk? I sigh, now I have to run to the store to get milk for my breakfast, and being as stubborn as I am, there would be no breakfast without milk. Grabbing my coat, I head out the door towards my new adventure, yay.
So I’m now at the store, ok, and I go to the dairy section all the way at the back of the store. Unlike most people who would’ve stopped to buy something else that they vaguely need, I am in no mood to partake in the capitalistic strategies that make up grocery layouts. I am hungry. One good thing did happen though, they had 2% on sale.
Heading to the lines that were full of elderly morning-ers, I impatiently wait. So here I am, finally next and putting my things on the belt when this d-bag in front of me decides to make his problem everyone else's by pulling out a gun; man, isn't my morning great?
"Get on the ground," he yells at the cashier, not even stopping to look at me or any other customers, "and hand over the dough."
The poor kid at the register, tired and from what I can see, probably stoned, turns, and looks the man dead in the eye. Just sighing he says, "Dude, really? It's 2019, there is most likely $15 max in here."
The man, obviously unhappy and surprised by this answer, doesn't know what to do now. His plan has been destroyed by changing consumer practices and a kid who is as high as a skyscraper. Mustering up all his leftover pride while still pointing the gun at the cashier, he says, "Look, I'm going to take my stuff and go..."
You know, I'm not one to judge, but looking at this guy's stuff he's buying, really stealing, I'm so done. All he has is frosted loft cookies. F-ing cookies. The audacity. And all while staring at these cookies, I get an idea for the end of my book.
Not wanting to let this idea go, I push past the man, swatting his gun away, take the kid's scanner, scan my gallon of 2% milk, pay with cash, and leave. And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I finished my book and had the most mediocre breakfast I've ever had.
There is an illusion in strength,
Like a rock to a wave,
Sure to be swept away,
But held to the expectation of being unmoved,
Here’s the thing about rocks,
Even the strongest rocks sink,
Similarly, stones don’t shy at every touch,
They don’t panic at every embrace of a hand,
But rocks are rocks,
And stones are stones,
So how can they?
I am supposed to be unmoveable,
Forever set and steady,
But what is wrong with me,
What defect is there inside,
Feeling like I’m treading in a bottomless ocean,
Covered by storms overhead,
Paralyzed by the crashes of thunder,
Numbed by the freezing cold,
An ocean with no way out but down,
Monsters pulling me under the waves,
No one stopping them,
So why should I,
Because I’m strong,
Or because no one else is strong enough.