The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with towering doors, each one sealed shut with iron locks. The man had lost count of how many he had tried. His fingers were raw from prying at knobs, pounding on wood, twisting handles that refused to give.

Some doors bore intricate carvings, golden plaques whispering promises—wisdom, wealth, redemption. Others stood bare, indifferent, offering nothing at all. Yet none would open.

He had begun this search in desperation, fleeing from a past that clung to him like a shadow. He told himself that beyond one of these doors lay escape—relief from the weight he carried. If only he could find the right one.

But as time dragged on, hope unraveled. His strength seeped away with every failed attempt. His knees buckled. He slumped against the cold stone wall, forehead pressed into his hands, whispering a broken plea.

"What else can I do?"

And then—silence.

Or perhaps not silence, but stillness.

In that stillness, he noticed it.

A door behind him—plain, unmarked—slightly ajar.

There was no handle, no lock, no carvings to tempt or promise. It had been there the whole time.

His pulse quickened. How had he missed it?

With trembling hands, he reached forward. The door swung open at the gentlest touch, and warmth spilled out, wrapping around him like an old embrace. A voice—gentle, steady—echoed from beyond.

"I was waiting for you to stop searching… and simply come."

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he hesitated. Not from fear, but from something deeper—an understanding. The struggle, the searching, the doors that led nowhere… they had never been the way.

He stepped through.

And behind him, the hallway disappeared.

Somewhere, in a place he had long since forgotten, a man woke up to a new day. His hands no longer trembled. The weight on his chest felt lighter. The craving—the hunger that had driven him to search for so long—was still there, but distant now.

A breath. A moment.

And then, he rose.

Stupidity used to be obvious. The guy who stuck a fork in a light socket. The neighbor who invested his life savings in a "sure thing" because some guy at a bar told him about it. There was a clarity to it. A cause and effect. Now, stupidity is slippery. It wears a suit. It has a verified account. It speaks in the right buzzwords, retweets the right opinions, and knows just enough to be dangerous.

It’s not that people are getting dumber; it’s that the world makes it easier than ever to feel smart while knowing nothing. We have access to infinite information but no time to process it. We consume headlines, not articles. Hot takes, not analysis. We mistake speed for accuracy, volume for truth, confidence for competence. The guy who reads one Wikipedia page and suddenly has strong opinions on international policy isn’t an outlier—he’s the blueprint.

This isn’t entirely our fault. The system is built to keep us in a permanent state of mild ignorance. Every app, every platform, every news cycle is designed to keep us scrolling, clicking, reacting. Outrage is easier than understanding. Certainty is more marketable than doubt. And so we float through the world, forming half-baked opinions on things we barely understand, mistaking engagement for insight, collecting facts like trinkets rather than using them to build anything meaningful.

The worst part? It feels like thinking. It feels like participating. You read, you react, you post. You feel a brief rush of righteousness, of being on the right side of something. But real thinking is slow. It’s uncomfortable. It requires sitting with doubt, resisting the urge to immediately categorize everything as right or wrong, good or bad, my team or their team. It means accepting that most issues are complicated, that most people aren’t villains, and that sometimes, the correct answer is “I don’t know.”

But who has time for that? Modern life moves at the speed of distraction. If you’re not reacting, you’re falling behind. If you’re not constantly reaffirming your identity—political, moral, cultural—who even are you? The internet has turned beliefs into brands, and once you’ve invested in one, changing your mind feels like bad marketing.

So we stay where we are. We mistake familiarity for truth. We listen to the voices that make us feel smart, that confirm what we already believe. We build our little worlds out of opinions that were handed to us, convinced we arrived at them on our own. And maybe that’s the worst kind of stupidity—the kind that doesn’t know it’s stupid. The kind that would rather be wrong forever than admit it was ever fooled.

But there’s another option. You can slow down. You can resist the pull of easy outrage, easy certainty, easy tribalism. You can step outside your bubble and let your brain do what it was meant to do: think, question, wonder. Not for clout, not to win an argument, not to prove anything—just because it’s the only way to stay human in a world that would rather you weren’t.

The fog is clearing

From the corners of mine eyes

As years slip by

The haze dissipates

And I start to see

What was shrouded

Slowly revealed

Through the layers

Of mist and conditioning

Of youth and foolishness

The things of true import

Time, freedom, love

Understanding, growth

Patience and kindness

Truth - I see the truth

And I long to speak it

To shout to the rooftops

What has taken me a lifetime

To try to understand

But all comes in good time

It is clear now

As the sand flows through

That pain leads to understanding

To kindness and patience

And the ability to revel in peace

That broken hearts lead to tenderness

To care and gentle words

To tears kissed away

To shared cups of tea

And wicked cryptic crosswords

Aching joints and muscles

Lead to exercise and movement

And delighting in the pleasure

Of inhabiting this body

In all its perfect imperfection

Fits of sadness and depression

And retreating to the jagged

Grey corners of my heart

Make the sunshine warmer

The flowers more radiant

The sand that's flowed is gone

I'll never retrieve it

From the hands of time

But what's left is mine

Mine and no-one else's

To spend how I choose

Sickness or health

Love or loneliness

Creativity or boredom

Peace or despair

I am the scribe of my destiny

The only one who holds the pen

And I can choose to live

My dreams or my nightmares

Hmm, I think I choose dreams

I touched the clouds with my cotton candy lips

whipping the sky with my laughter.

I dreamt in color.

And that bold, beautiful world

would shimmer just so.

Just as quietly and assuredly as any world would want to,

if it had a choice I mean.

And I knew even as a child,

that we all had choices:

Some big, some small,

some seemingly mundane,

but they all made up that world

that I thought was pure beauty.

Then I woke from my cotton candy dreams,

older with eyes that looked to steady ground and not just the

l i m i t l e s s sky

and the world that seemed to shimmer before my eyes

dimmed and my lips became cracked from the strain of trying to smile

when there was no reason to after all.

That young girl who saw the world in color and shimmers,

who touched the sky with her small hands,

Lost it.

And haven’t we all been there?

Where we see the world,

see our possibilities,

and tie it to another?

Then look and believe that together, our bound forevers will make the world sing once more.

And haven’t we all become untethered from that beautiful longing?

And the person whose hand found yours has disappeared behind black skies, where the clouds mute to dim whispers and you are there still, loudly muttering your loss to no one in particular.

And the young ones out there whipping the sky with their laughter don’t know what will come when they greet the world with more than a smile. I wish to God I could shield them from that.

Especially young girls with cotton candy lips, swirling laughter and small hands- always reaching for more, in a world that used to shimmer just so.

"Clouds are the dream weavers of the sky, spinning fantasies in sunlight," said my love before wayward journey into night, arm in arm, over fiery autumn cobblestone.

"Oh," murmur the passersby, sweeping... peering up.

"Look! there, there are angels, combing their spiderweb hair with a broom, and now the strands are caught, oh! into a spindle, and it shall become... the wool of a whole herd of sheep! across the indigo. See how they run towards the sun! to avoid a laundering...?"

The man at the doorway licks his finger, and checks the wind, "To the south, my fair friends!! To the south," he nods approvingly.

"Aha! the clouds are busy, tonight, darling, making hay before the winter, then."

"No, my love, it's you who weaves, and spins, who turns poofs of breath into infinite flaxen stores upon the wind," says I, enamored with the light, and the chill, that shows to us the splendor of your weave.

02.04.205

Rabindranath Tagore challenge @dctezcan

I am vulnerable sitting in that tiny boat, suspended above fathoms of an inky void as the menacing, colossus lurks below, beyond the sun's rays, out of range from my squinting eyes. With no interest in a drowned worm concealing a barbed hook, it opts for easier prey. Circling underneath my boat, the assault begins. Using effortless flicks from a broad tail, the prehistoric-in-stature fish ascends with increasing velocity all the while remaining focused on its selected target. The jaws splay open right before impact against the hull.

With little resistance from the surrounding medium, the momentum propels its body and my craft well above the lake. The vessel’s keel snaps, separating the bow and stern as I am hurled through the air. In disbelief over what just happened, I find myself treading water, converted into flotsam among the scattered, buoyant debris. The hunter has become the hunted as the surface roils. After the gnashing of teeth and a definitive gulp, I’m expunged from existence. My demise is Nature’s retaliation for all the previous fillets I’ve consumed.

Such is the thought process of an overimaginative eight-year-old fishing with his grandfather.

Hunching my shoulders, I bury my face in the orange, Kapok-filled life preserver wrapped around my neck to seek refuge. Gramps notices my posture and sudden quietness. Recognizing the power of an adolescent’s self-generated fear, he knows if my unsubstantiated anxiety isn't dispelled, I'll want to go back to camp. Without embarrassing me, he mentions he’s going to “reposition the anchor.” And in three arm-length pulls, the anchor is by the gunnel. He then lowers it back down, using the thick line to prove that we are in a mere fifteen feet of water. This reassuring display mitigates my angst, banishing the nightmare-fuel from my mind. With newfound courage, I return to the task at hand, cast out my lure and slowly crank the reel, hoping for manageable resistance on the line that trails off into the depths.

Such is the obligation of a grandfather fishing with an overimaginative eight-year-old.

My grandparents owned a camp on a reservoir nestled between two mountains in upstate New York. Our extended family convened there each summer, spending most of the time either in or on the water. Days revolved around wading, swimming, water skiing, boating and fishing. Fishing superseded everything. Fishing was king.

Having always been around it, I don't remember a time when I didn’t know how to fish. My grandfather was passionate about this hobby. So, I learned from his example to love it as well. He was there to lend a supportive hand, helping me reel in a struggling sunfish or pugnacious perch caught off the dock. He taught me correct casting techniques, how to properly set a hook and respect for nature.

After a few years, he was also the one who decided I was ready to accompany him on his fishing trips in the boat. Fishing from the boat was my rite of passage. It meant I had proven to Gramps that I was ready to venture out where the big fish are. He may have been impressed with my diligence while waiting for a nibble in the waters surrounding the dock. Or, he may simply have grown tired of fishing with me twelve paces from his kitchen window. Nonetheless, he deemed me trustworthy to be away from camp for hours on end without the risk of being bored, whiny or in need of accessible, indoor plumbing. My internship was complete. Now it’s time to continue honing my craft far away from shore.

Taking the boat shows I am a real fisherman. With enough fuel, it grants access to the entire lake - open water or protected bay, deep basin or shallow flats. No part of the expansive reservoir is unreachable. I am liberating myself from the narrow confines of our waterfront property.

The downside of my grandfather's excursions is the predawn wake-up calls. Five a.m. is an ungodly hour for a kid on summer vacation. "Because that's when the fish are biting," was the standard reply when questioned about the need for early departures.

After finishing our traditional breakfast of two fried eggs over easy atop a piece of Roman Meal toast surrounded by still spattering bacon and accompanied by a mug of hot chocolate, we are ready for our trip. I rush to the storage shed attached to my grandparents' cottage. Navigating the uneven floorboards, I am responsible for gathering the bait box, hook remover, gloves, air horn, stringer, net, empty Maxwell House Coffee can and seat cushions. With my arms full, I trudge to the boat. Gramps follows with a full tank of gas and our tackle boxes.

When everything is stowed, we return for the fishing poles. They go in last to prevent them from being snapped while loading the other gear. Plus, it’s a ritual. The Carrying of the Poles. The Presentation of Arms. Once they are ceremoniously placed in the boat, we depart. Daybreak's quiet air and calm water are disrupted by the steady putter of the engine and the ever-increasing, rippled "V" pattern our wake leaves as we set off towards fertile honey holes.

Measuring about ten feet long, our boat is made from what seemed like World War II surplus steel. It has a pointed bow, three bench seats and is powered by a trusty 18-horse Johnson outboard motor, which always starts on the third yank. My station is forward, fully exposed to the uninterrupted wind and water.

When I am old enough and pass a safe boating course, we reverse roles. I steer and he sits on the middle seat. He is the Admiral; I am his Captain. During moments of insubordination, I deliberately angle the bow, so it glances off an oncoming wave. This creates excessive spray, which in turn soaks my higher-ranking official.

From underneath a tilted fishing cap that is his only shield against the aqueous onslaught, I hear, "Whatta man. What a man." Grampa used this lighthearted expression every time I slipped from Serious Fisherman Mode into Rambunctious Little Boy Mode. I'd snicker while offering a feeble, "Gosh, sorry" over the din of the motor and correct my course.

Arriving at our destination, we each take and stick to one side of the boat to cast from, preventing inadvertent line entanglement. Like a true fisherman, I am diligent in keeping my pole pointed skyward, except when a dragonfly lands on the tip. Then I dunk the end in the water, attempting to submerge the unwelcomed squatter. The insect always launches before my rod breaks the surface. When this happens, Gramps reminds me, "Eddie, you can't set the hook when your pole's pointing towards the seaweed (technically, it’s lake weed)." He dutifully concludes with, "Whatta man. What a man."

Letting my lure sink too far before reeling means it will snag on the bottom. When this occurs, more often than it should have, I turn these annoyances into pretend fights with trophy-sized fish. Out of the corner of his eye, Gramps notices my rod bending grotesquely and plays along with this make-believe battle. He can tell the type of fish hooked by the way it fought. A steady pull meant vegetation.

"Don't let that one get away, Eddie."

"Better get the net because this one's a doozy," I reply, before the tangled mass of slimy weeds or waterlogged branch breaches. I was taught, “You catch it, you release it.” So, I am on my own to free the clot of plant life from my hook while Grandpa continues casting and uttering, "Whatta man. What a man."

Between my battles with the littoral flora, I concoct "What if..." scenarios.

"What if…the boat springs a leak?" I ask, trying to catch him off guard.

"We'll use the coffee can and bail out the water," he calmly replies.

"What if…while getting the anchor, I fall overboard?" I persist.

"Let go of the line, you can swim. Plus, you’re wearing a life jacket," he counters.

"What if…the motor doesn't start?"

"We'll row. That's why we have oars."

I had a better chance of catching the dragonflies on the tip of my rod off guard.

Losing a fish when a line broke was a minor setback. "Must have been a hefty one," he proclaims while swiping at the severed end limply blowing in the wind. A few quick twists and he’s secured a new leader. I couldn’t tie knots as quickly or as efficiently as he did. Despite crooked fingers, he is masterful. With a snap of the wrist, the line, leader and new lure are airborne, back into the lake. "That fish is out there somewhere with my lure. Maybe we'll catch him this time."

When my arm got sore from casting, I'd rummage through my tackle box to get a hook, a leader with a sinker and a plastic, red and white bobber. Then I’d switch to “still fishing.” Positioning the bobber on the line about four feet above the hook, I toss the ensemble overboard. With the bait suspended in view, the waiting begins. I wait for the fish to come to me. I wait for the bobber to execute its one and only job – bobbing to signal a bite. And I wait. And wait and wait, knowing the longer I wait, the greater the probability I’ll be rewarded.

Eventually, fish congregate around my line. But instead of chomping at the juicy worm writhing in mid-water, they are captivated by the leader and sinker. What’s the attraction to steel and lead when a free lunch was dangling just below? I hypothesize the fish were mulling over how to unclasp the leader. If they could learn to do that, they would nullify the threat of impalement and leisurely peck at the free-falling food.

Our trips were usually successful. Undersized fish were released so they'll "grow up for next year." Big ones destined for the dinner table were kept on a stringer hanging off the transom. I can sit with abundant patience during the process. But when the stringer is heavy with keepers, my attention turns to showing them off back at camp. As Gramps senses my uneasiness, he announces he'll take "one last, lucky cast" before heading home. I don't remember if he ever caught anything on this final cast, but he always upheld the tradition.

Water droplets fly off the line as I pull the anchor, hoping it latches onto a sunken treasure chest. It never does. Instead, the homemade hunk of lead has dislodged a large accumulation of weeds and bottom muck. After a few dunks in the water, the anchor is clean enough to slide under the middle seat. The stringer is retrieved. Our trip has concluded.

Approaching the dock, I ready myself for a premature disembarkation. Grandpa tells me to wait until we are tied up, but I can't. I grab the stringer and jump out of the boat before it’s completely moored, while hearing, "Eddie, wait. Secure the bow line.” I don’t. “Whatta man. What a man."

Struggling to keep the day’s catch from dragging on the ground, I run up to camp yelling, "Hey, look at these," to nobody in particular but everybody in general. I strut about, acknowledging congratulatory smiles and answering probing questions. "Where did you go?" "Can't say, it's a secret." "Who caught that big one?" "Grandpa." "And that bigger one?" "Gramps." "And the small one?" "Me." This invokes reminiscing of past trips the onlookers had taken.

Grandma would get her Instamatic camera and tell us to stand on the dock. Then, with a burst from a flashcube, we are immortalized from knees up, destined for the photo album. Grandma’s Kodak Moments rarely showed anyone's legs or feet because she focused on the fish proudly held out for display. "Get closer. Hold the fish between you two. Higher up, Ray," she directs.

I’m beaming ear-to-ear standing beside Gramps. With his shirt half unbuttoned ("This makes it look like I had to put up a fight to land the fish."), he extends his arm. "Hold the fish away from your body so it looks bigger," he whispers before the shutter clicks.

Whatta man. What a man.

love of my life, i called you

but you put me on hold again.

you say i get too far ahead of myself, so my heart sinks into the ground like a plane crash.

you say the plans i make

you don't want

a future you refuse to see

you justify it as postponed plans for now, better this way you say.

but i am convinced

you're just anti-everything

me

because I’ve spent 1000 nights looking for the love of my life to love me again.

now i give up on the edge of the sofa like an item in the lost and found never picked up.

watching you from inside the bin

admiring how you give a phone all the attention I wished for easily

now time brings me worries

there doesn’t seem to be enough time now.

not like when we were teenagers time stretched out forever

Midnight Blockbuster trips

movies without interruptions

a race to return the DVD

24 hours and we never got a late fee.

we appreciated time when we were younger it makes me miss the old versions of us.

it was a different world so long ago before Google was even born.

this new era seems to have taken you from me.

i can’t finish a sentence

because you've heard it all

i can't hold your attention for more than sixty seconds

no more questions

to figure out together

you say google it

here i am

asking the AI

how should

couples

move forward

in a broken state

it couldn‘t

understand

how tired

I had

become

of missing

a person

who was across

the room

it kept giving me advice

to get rid of the devices and invest in couples therapists.

but option two too expensive to hire and the device too precious to jail.

a phone that will always win his attention over mine.

Time now worries me.

I’ve came

to the conclusion

that maybe he is right.

maybe I ask for too much…

maybe I’m the worst person for him to love…

maybe I don’t deserve mothers day

candle light dinner escapes…

I never thought I was worth a celebration either.

But I do know in this new world we live in i am no soulmate of yours.

I am more like a reel he swipes up before i could even make a sound.

As he holds

the phone closer

than he holds me

and I wonder

if this love can survive

in a world

designed to distract.

I was born with a scar on my left wrist. I often tug down my sleeve, staring at the light flesh smeared on my hand, a different skin tone than the rest of my body. It was never peculiar to my friends and family I showed it to, but it was peculiar to me. It was centered just underneath my sleeve, hidden from the naked eye. What does that sound like to me?

To answer the question, nobody put a knife in my body. I put it there myself. Nobody forced me to make that decision but myself. I made myself do it. I was not murdered in my past life; It was a suicide.

Someone hurt me so bad I felt the need to take a razor to my skin and peel off skin and bone until I was dry. Until I was numb. They pushed me to my breaking point but took no blame for what happened next.

So, yeah. I put the knife in my skin myself. I'm not proud of it.

I laughed,

choking back tears of pure agony from how much my face hurt from laughing.

This was... bliss.

I mean, how could it not be?

When the nights are long and cold,

my stomach can ache all it wants, but this feeling never gets old.

Anxiety, anguish, feeling alone. Ah... It has no place here.

Here, where I never can quite miss the catch of my voice as it goes high,

and some quip of a joke catches between us and I laugh until my eyes aren't dry.

Hours after shift.

Long dark, I think almost midnight.

Sometimes here with him,

other times there with others.

All people who make me laugh, cry, or talk like I'm on some sort of soap box.

But right now, he's kind of my favorite person.

Man, what an adventure.

Someone real, someone I can relate with.

We go on like this for hours.

At his house.

At arcades.

At bars or restaurants.

Ugh- who knows where else.

Anywhere, really.

Hours that could seem to cause rifts.

But they don't. At least, they never end up doing so and I come home relaxed later.

Muscles unwinding and untense. Shifts long over. And I laugh.

It's like... how can you have one favorite person?

Ha- I can tell you for certain, you can't.

A favorite person is so generic.

It's so basic, and unrealistic.

He's my... favorite person who I just sit back and play games with.

Even if I suck at them.

He's my favorite person to poke fun of,

because of the way he hates Vodka.

I mean, 'what's up with that?' Haha.

Agh- It's so funny, but it's nothing vulnerable.

Not really.

But yeah- I'm here anyway, laughing,

and then we're turning in to places on whim.

An arcade.

Drinks?

Maybe an expensive 'appetizer' dinner in...

In a place where I won't go. Not alone... at least.

Safe.

With company.

Real company.

And we can bump shoulders.

Nothing romantic.

Never.

Just... good friends.

With similarities.

Kind of looking through worn lenses,

at a life we're tired of fighting in.

Because pain is a history,

and a history laid bare.

How can I not enjoy the little moments when someone else who's been through hell knows what's there? Knows what could be stabbing at me, like it stabbed at him.

Kicking and screaming.

Who used to be.

Not him. Not me.

No, we're just here.

Joking, nudging shoulders and playing games no matter how stupid.

Failing. Dying, asking 'how the hell you screw that up?'

Until I'm laughing so hard my face hurts.

What a reality.

What... a- reality.

If only my life was like this before.

Agh- hard to believe it was so painful.

Painfully hard to ignore,

until we're here.

Just being stupid.

Just a couple of people,

loose on life.

Giving it no limiters.

Just riding the high.