I was six years old. The last day I saw the unicorn, it was on my grandmom's porch, a silver magic shadow in the oceanic darkness.

We had read a book, I can't remember the name. The illustrations were vibrant and bedazzled. The book was about all the mythical creatures with horns, and the habitats where they lived. The ones that flew, that swam, that hunted, that roamed.

My grandma had the famous medieval tapestry, the red and gold embroidered print of the unicorn pastured in the stall, its neck caught in a circle of thorns. It hung above her sitting room couch, next to the piano.

My grandma's house was full of magic, it walked and flew in the forest behind her house.

The unicorn's eyes watched us through the frosted panes. It watched us play tickle fight on the couch, cuddle in my grandma's chair, make banana bread in the oven.

The last night I saw the unicorn, we both knew it was goodbye.

The end of the sidewalk was cast in blackness, the shadows of the native trees fell, liquid, into puddles of indeterminate blackness. Holes? Portals? Interdimensional gates? The shapes of foliage, hard wood, and creatures inside the dark forest line painted classical art in hundreds of shades of black, yet only perceived through the hard lines of ‘Black’ or ‘White’. The innate sense of danger lingers at the end of the sidewalk, the genetic coding deep in the DNA. It itches in the fingers, it scratches in the hairline, it perspires in the areas of thinnest skin. Any predator can smell it- the fear.

What is at the end of the sidewalk? The crossing of the known into the territory of the other, the land that belongs to no man, the category of ‘unimaginable’. She lives there, the darkness. The place that she curls up at night, the place where she knows she will always be safe. It is a den, a blanket, an impenetrable wall. The light belongs to him, the illumination feels like safety, each crack and crevice is searched, no stone left unturned. Each sun spot, each warm fire bed, every life giving cell breathes his breath.

He needs her, but he can never find her.

They meet once a year, at the place where the sidewalk ends. They both hang in the sky, a cosmic confluence of ‘Wrong’. He begs her to stay, but she will always refuse him. They dance, and they fight. The dark kisses the light. The world knows that it is wrong, but it cannot help but stop, and watch. At the end of the day, at the place where the sidewalk ends, she knows she is home, and he knows he will never stop looking.

this man in my life, he doesn't want to be helped. He likes to build problems, and watch them fall down. He is a self saboteur, a manipulator, a child.

And I don't mean derogatively a child-

The emotional maturity froze solid in his freshman year when he was bullied to near extinction, and heard only the word's of those girls who broke him.

Years, and years, and so much love and advice and devotion later-

That is him. He is everything he fears he is, because he believes it. And So It Is.

The back of my head faces the sun.

Each freckle cements its investigative hole inside my head,

the Vitamin D floats, empty blanks, down to my toes.

More time, less time.

Exactly, exquisitely, innately.

Solar flares warm my body,

The cellular determination of my skin,

likens me to the sky.

The back of my head faces the sun.

Each freckle cements its investigative hole inside my head,

the Vitamin D floats, empty blanks, down to my toes.

More time, less time.

Exactly, exquisitely, innately.

Solar flares warm my body,

The cellular determination of my skin,

likens me to the sky.

The constant confluence;

elimination of the thistle bushes,

licking up the side-storm gates.

Wood burnt magnetism;

tastes of crumbled al-u-min-ium

crinkle and popping POP rocks.

The sunburnt ground blushes black;

the grass is dead.

The cat is thirsty.

The air is empty.

The map leads back;

and back,

and back.

Challenging my mind is the looming date that opens up the MFA applications at my dream school. This year is my second round of applications, and my imposter syndrome has decided to be a challenge. Last year, riding on the wave of familial support, gifted-kid syndrome, and dumb confidence- I was positive without a doubt that I would receive that acceptance letter on Jan. 15th in my inbox.

Then it was the 16th, the 18th, the 20th. The rejection letter was kind, and the creative writing director recommended me a book called, "Burning the House Down", when I asked for advice for next year.

This year has lied to me. It told me, 'you have so much time, you can improve, you can study and learn'. In a blink, it is now mid September, I only got halfway into the book he told me I should study, and I have worked 50 hours a week for the past 5 months, and I haven't finished a piece of writing since March.

My challenge now is my focus. My drive, and my ability to dedicate myself to my passion (which I never thought would be a challenge for me). I have to learn that work and money is not everything, and that I have the potential to achieve my dreams.

As a writer, I was told that I needed to pick a backup career. Something I could make money in, something I could support my family with, something that could get me- anywhere.

I listened. I went to college, I got my Bachelor's in English, and I worked full-time through college.

I graduated, and got a job as a creative writing teacher, helping others to create the dream careers that they want, and showing them how they can be successful by doing what they love.

When I publish one of my books some day, I will take the advance, and use it to live. I can live my life and support my family, by being who I want to be.