Every moment a measure.
4/4 common time.
Streetcars, subways, their snapping of tracks
Repeating staccatos fill tunnels, and 
Wind rushes through. The shuffle turned 
Rumble of a 1000 footsteps.  
The crowd’s excitement like soft taps of a high hat
Then gliding ivory guiding the third, the fifth, the seventh 
Person in chord’s progression.
And like people, the sweet melody of music
Is something you don’t need to know to love.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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Understanding psychology has been a major focus in my life, not only in my educational endeavors, but for the improvement it brings to my daily life. If you are or know someone part of generation A, or Z, you’ll know I am not alone in this. What might have been considered a niche interest to generations prior is now mainstream knowledge. Psychological language has become increasingly common in my and my peers’ everyday conversations. Terms that once belonged primarily to clinicians now casually come up in social settings. It’s changed how people connect within their relationships as they express their emotions and identities. This shift has no doubt added to the visibility of mental health challenges, along with accessibility to the treatments of them. The ever-growing awareness, diagnosis, and treatment has led to broader scales of diagnosable mental illness. Up until this point, I’ve considered this a positive change, but I wonder just how broad those scales will become? How slight a mental challenge will one need to experience in order to receive diagnosis and treatment, and should that be the goal? Our society’s count of people with neurotypical brains is shrinking. Is this beneficial, or are we beginning to pathologize what it means to be human?

On one hand, the expansion of psychological knowledge has allowed more people to recognize their struggle, and seek out help. On the other, the broadening of diagnostic categories as well as the normalization of clinical language may be changing how we interpret what used to be considered ordinary emotional experiences. All that to say, I am here to question the ideal of psychological normalcy in the age of diagnosis. To do so, I will dive into four major perspectives: the benefits of expanded diagnosis and access to care, the evolving definition of recovery and remission, the rise in diagnosis and its possible explanations, and the role of pharmaceutical treatment in shaping the modern understanding of mental health.

The first perspective considers the clear advantages of increased awareness and diagnosis. This is where most of my prior knowledge on this subject lies, since I witness the benefits in this growth amongst my peers and community everyday. Especially since historically, mental health conditions were so often misunderstood, stigmatized, or even ignored outright. Many individuals who struggled with depression, anxiety, or attention disorders had little or no access to treatment. Not only that, but the language to describe or comprehend their experience was lacking. Today, diagnostic frameworks provide validation as well as routes to care. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, nearly one in five adults in the United States experiences a mental illness each year. When I first read this, I found it a bit astounding, but it reflects a modern system that is more capable of identifying such psychological distress. Some scholars argue that diagnosis, when used appropriately, can be protective, helping individuals access necessary treatment and reducing the risk of untreated conditions worsening over time. With this in mind, the rise in diagnoses could be seen as progress, and not excessive.

But the second perspective adds nuance to this optimism by examining what it means to “recover.” The Sequenced Treatment Alternatives to Relieve Depression study provides a useful case diving into this term. This study followed over 4,000 participants through multiple levels of treatment. The study found that many individuals could reach remission through the supplied treatment plans. This challenges the current frameworks where mental illness are strongly tied to identity, and often considered chronic, and instead frames it as something that is treatable. However, the concept of remission and recovery is not always straightforward, especially in relation to mental health. This makes me wonder: if this “recovery” requires continuous medical intervention, should it even be considered recovery? That would be like a broken bone being considered healed, but only if the injured person continues to wear a cast. Yes this example is only somewhat related, but it brings up the major point that I am curious about here. What should we consider to be healed or recovered, when it comes to mental health?

The third perspective addresses the noticeable increase in diagnosis and asks whether this reflects a genuine rise in mental illness, or merely a shift in how it is defined. Over time, diagnostic criteria have expanded, specifically with revisions of the Diagnostic and Statistical

Manual of Mental Disorders. Some critics, argue that some conditions, particularly depression, may now include responses to normal life stressors that were not previously considered pathological. From this viewpoint, grief, anxiety, and sadness risk being reclassified as disorders rather than recognized as what they used to be considered, just aspects of life and the human experience. At the same time, others argue that increased reporting and awareness, not over diagnosis, actually explain the rise in numbers. Increased cultural awareness, reduced stigma, and better screening tools may just be shedding light on conditions that were always present, but not recognized. This creates a gray area between what could be considered expanded understanding, and expanded pathology.

The fourth perspective considers the role of pharmaceutical treatment as well as the broader medical system. The growth of the pharmaceutical industry, particularly in the area of mental health medications, cannot go unnoticed. The pharmaceutical market in the U.S. has reached hundreds of billions of dollars, with antidepressants and related medications comprising a substantial portion of that. Some critics say that this economic context could influence how mental health is defined and treated, and could lead to an encouragement in the medicalized view of distress. However, it is just as important take note of the undeniable benefits many individuals have experienced with the increase in availability of treatment. The process of medicalization often reflects both social needs and institutional structures, rather than a single intentional force. This suggests that the relationship between diagnosis, treatment, and industry is nuanced, and cannot be assumed as purely exploitive.

Taken together, my understanding of this nuanced question is now more informed, but even so, leaves me unresolved. Increased diagnosis can be validating, but potentially limiting. Treatment can be effective, but conceptually ambiguous. Rising statistics can indicate both improved awareness and shifting definitions. Pharmaceutical involvement can represent both innovation and influence. So rather than pointing at an obvious answer, these contradictions may come together to represent the evolution of mental health alongside cultural changes.

Ultimately, the question may not be whether or not we have apathologized being human, but rather how our definition of being human is changing. Emotional experiences that were once considered private are now named, shared, categorized, and treated within a clinical context. This shift has undeniable benefits for those who have been historically overlooked or misunderstood. At the same time, it challenges us to consider where we draw the line between disorder, and experience. As our language and ideas continue to evolve, so will our understanding of what it means to be mentally ill or mentally well—or more simply, what it means to be human.

xo,

A.Song

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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All of your life
Your hardships, your loving,
Everything in between
Will be made beautiful before
Kinder eyes, and 
A wiser mind. 

So at times,
Borrow those eyes from
Later, and with them
See the beauty in 
Your life
All of the time.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

There came a day soon after where I noticed my knowledge of the end beginning to turn to a craving for it. Luckily, that my future self I dreamed of—the happier one—called me away from those thoughts, and helped me leave the place they were thriving. I quit my job, sold all of my things, gave my apartment to a friend, and I left town. Sure, I told my loved ones that I’d be back, but deep down I had no real intentions of returning. I went on this drive to find that future version of myself, or die trying.

Nihilism from an outsider’s point of view can sound quite worrisome. Especially from the point of view from boomer parents who couldn’t believe what had happened to their sweet little girl. They pictured me going off to college, and leading a nuclear life they could be proud of, and be a part of. For them, quitting my job and replacing the roof over my head for a converted sprinter van seemed like the beginning of a downward spiral. But really, this spiral had begun long before then. My promise of return—empty like the ones to my friends—did not work to soothe them. Alas, they’d already lost sight of the sweet little girl from years before. Now they watched the same curly hair coming out of a mind they didn’t recognize, and drive off for what they feared would be forever.

I left in Minnesota in December. If you’ve been to Minnesota, you know that December is one of the easier times to leave. The cold was essentially nipping at my feet to get away. My dog and I strode the miles and miles of road south—where every passed exit meant growing a few degrees in temperature. Each bit warmer I felt, it was like a nudge from the elements that I was moving in the right direction.

I never had an issue being alone, or maybe I did and never noticed because I had my dog by my side. She—all black besides a patch of crescent moon on her back, with 45 lbs packed into the frame of a French Bulldog—was my Sagittarius sister and traveling companion. Though her small frame contradicted this statement, I think she kept me safe.

It was almost funny, the way she always knew how to react. Like she could read people or a situation much better and faster than I could. There were countless nights where I was worried she may give away our presence while we stealth camped illegally on the sides of roads. Usually, any persistent knock would throw her into a frenzy of deep-bellied barks, but nights on our drive together, with the police or strangers banging on the windows, she was quite as a mouse. Other times, on walks to pet-friendly groceries or the beaches of California, she’d alert me to stranger danger in situations I’d never expect. Like the deep growl I’d never heard from her before, as we walked a dark night past a group of people. Their murmurs cut off and listened to her guttural noise as I passed by.

With the safe feeling she gave me, and my nihilism strong as ever, I felt fearless. The open road only intensified this. While driving up to 12 hours a day, I’d daydream. I’d sing. Novachka would hang her head out the window, and I imagined she was daydreaming too. By now, I had spent the last 2 months driving south from Minnesota, all the way to California. Here, the sun was warm on my skin, and for my Midwest mind, it was a delightful surprise for February. California had called to me since I was a teen. Short visits had quenched my desires until they’d inevitably return. Now, as a 21-year-old, full of free will and apparent lack of will to live, I said to myself I’d never leave.

That was the start of the next 6 months in California. Every day I spent with my dog on the ocean. Our favorite beach was where we’d start every day. Our 26 toes leaving prints along the foaming waves. I would swim and bask in the sun while she went off to meet other dog friends. But she’d always have her eyes on me, and mine on her. Truly, it was a dream, until reality started to seep in, in the form of an empty bank account. My savings that funded this long drive were dwindling, and I decided to head to Tucson, Arizona, for the yearly gem show they have in the summer. Plenty of tourists consider it a great time for shopping, but I came to find that many van lifers considered it a way to make cash under the table. With one last visit to Ocean Beach, I loaded up Nova, and we set out for the desert.

Maybe I had gotten out of the groove of daily driving after my leisurely time in San Diego, but suddenly, this measly 6.5-hour drive from San Diego to Tucson felt a world away. I decided I’d find a place to camp before sunset. It was just before 5, and the sun would say goodbye just before 6. Plenty of time if I find somewhere close! I was near the All-American Canal, and had a habit of camping near water, even if it was man-made. So I checked local Reddit forums, and my iOverlander app for a stealth place to camp. I found a picture of what van lifers call an ‘informal campsite.’ Those were my favorite. They were the best for not running into anybody, and letting my dog free-roam while I set up camp, with the view of the setting sun over the water to accompany me.

I set my GPS to the end of a lateral—where the main canal splits off into a smaller canal. An out-and-back road that every camper that had left a review on the site had said was desolate but beautiful. I drove just the few hours it took until I arrived alongside the massive canal. It stretched about 200 ft wide, and I drove along it until the GPS had me turn off, and follow a smaller lateral. This one was much narrower, maybe 30 feet across, but still blue and beautiful. By now, the sun was only 4 fingers—about an hour— from the horizon, and I made my way down this one-way road. The road was dirt, and quite bumpy in places. Still, the sun guided my way, and with Edison Lighthouse’s Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes) blasting out open windows, I felt great.

I drove for miles, down a long stretch of narrow dirt road. I felt the rumblings of my trusty two-wheel drive tires beneath me, accompanied by the constant hum of shaking objects in the van. Novachka would occasionally hop from the bed in the back to press her hind toes onto the top of the cooler, which stood in place of the passenger seat I had ripped out. She’d bring her rounded front paws, and maybe just one bean to press against the button to roll the window down. Though she didn’t know many tricks, she did know that one. I never told her to stop because I always loved watching the way she’d glide her chin along the lowering window until her whole chest was out. She was a proud travel dog, and enjoyed looking off into the distance like the rest of us travelers. Who was I to stop her?

So she did exactly that down this rumble road. Once we got about 9 miles in, the GPS showed it was the end of the road. I guess it was a dead end. Luckily, it was right about the spot I was going to stop. On either side of the narrow road were ditches too deep to drive past. Past that though, was the canal that sparkled with the end-of-day sun, and to my left some makeshift fire rings. I chose one near the end, pulled my van as far to the side of the road as I could without feeling it would tip, and started setting up camp.

I only had about 20 minutes of sun at this point, so I settled with setting up my camper stove, and making a quick pot of ramen. I let Novachka loose, but she never goes far. Only ever about 20 feet from the van. She likes to munch on weeds, and mark her territory for the night. (She’s done this in an astounding amount of places across the U.S.) I spilled partially broken noodles into water that just began to rumble like my tires on the road in. Each steamy bubble wrapped itself around a bit of ramen, and slowly broke it down to its more tender form. I spilled the contents of seasoning into the pot, and watched the color of the sprouting bubbles change from white to a fiery red.

The smell of it wafted into the air, and was quite the pleasant wake-up for my tired, late-afternoon eyes. I guess Novachka must’ve smelled it too, because suddenly she was only a few feet away. I only looked at her through the corner of my eye, and expected to have to nudge her curious nose away from the scolding pot, but when I glanced at her, she wasn’t looking towards me at all.

I followed her gaze into the distance above the ledge of the ditch a few feet above my eyeline. Above that was a plume of dust, and the sound of familiar rumbling that Novachka probably heard much before me. I turned the other way to see the sun with only one finger’s distance from the horizon. By the time I turned back, instead of the sun shining across the road, it was the bright headlights of an old truck pulling up.

Novachka stood at attention, staring. I glanced from the corner of my eye, but didn’t want any eye contact to draw the individual closer. The truck stopped only 30 feet away. The engine cut, and out came a rugged man. The hem of his dark blue jeans hung loose around the ankles of steel-toe boots. It struck me a bit odd that someone else had happened to travel down this long stretch of road. Even more odd that he had come so close. Most campers and fellow travelers had the courtesy of leaving space between sites whenever possible. Then what alarmed me more than anything was the heavy weight of his eyes on me. Each time I tried to subtly glance in his direction, his glare would catch the flicker of my eyes.

Being a solo traveler, and a female one at that, I have a decent amount of stranger danger. But don’t forget the careless, risk-taking mindset that had me on this long drive in the first place. According to my family back home, I didn’t care what happened to me, right? I was risking my life and I was willing to die for no reason. If that were true, why was my heart pounding, and my mind filling with the worst that could happen?

I turned to Novachka,

“Get in the van, baby!” A command I had never taught her. But whether it was the tone in my voice or our telepathy in this moment of hypervigilence, she listened immediately. She hopped in, and I came in right behind her, steaming ramen in hand. Once the van door was closed, I felt a bit more secure. I let a large breath fill my lungs; though a bit strained, it helped. I brought myself to the driver’s seat and kept a better eye on the man through tinted windows. He was standing in the ditch with a fishing pole cast into the water, but frequently glancing over his shoulder towards us.

“He’s just here fishing,” I told myself and took a calmer breath. Novachka still stared at him though, and wouldn’t even eat the kibble I had scooped out for her. I tried to sooth myself with a meal and tell myself things were fine. Now though, the indigo blanket of night was beginning to spread across the sky. It was dark enough to see stars, but not quite so dark I couldn’t see the silhouette of the man fishing.

Then my eyes caught his once more, and I saw him place his fishing pole onto the ground. I put the half-finished pot of ramen to the top of the cooler to my right, and it was quickly replaced by Novachka, who had promptly climbed into my lap as the man approached. That 30 feet felt so short in the man’s long strides. His stature was bigger than I’d expected, and his demeanor just as gruff.

Novachka began growling, and I peered down the narrow road—my only exit. I noticed then how strategically the man had parked his truck. It was in the center of the road, barely wide enough to fit two passing cars. I looked back towards the man, now gliding his hip across the front of my van. Only when he reached the driver’s side window did I realize I had never rolled the windows back up. They were half down, and I felt stuck. If I tried to leave suddenly, it could aggravate him, plus there was no way out with him blocking the road. My heart pounded, but I kept my exterior calm. Novachka was humming like a motor, though. That same guttural sound I had only heard a few times before.

The man came to face me, with just a half-open window between us. He leaned his body against the van, and I felt it shift. If he was trying to assert dominance in the situation, it might’ve worked.

“You’re all alone out here?”

The answer being obvious, my small van, and no other seats to inhabit, he didn’t wait for my response. Instead, he said,

‘Cute dog! She’s friendly?” he simultaneously reached his hand through the gaping window and tried to pet her. I tried to sound stern as I replied,

“No, she bites.” An utter lie, but the best attempt at removing this man’s hand from my vehicle I could think of. But he continued reaching in and patted her head. Proving my statement a lie. My only solace now was the locked door between us.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here all alone?” he said with a lustful undertone that’s all too familiar to a 20-something girl.

I hardly replied, only reiterated my intention of being alone. My tone made it obvious I wasn’t open to conversation, but he wasn’t done talking yet.

“You don’t have to be scared, I’m not a murderer.” At that point, I must not have done well hiding the glimmer of fear that barely widened my eyes. I glanced towards his truck, taking up most of the roadway.

“Why don’t we get to know each other a little better?” I wished a thousand things in that moment. I wished I had chosen a different campsite, one not on a dead end. I wished I had worn

“C’mon, loosen up!” His hand went from the top of Novachka’s head, and swiftly to my chest. Now, I cursed the warmth of California, since it meant only a thin layer of cotton separated this man’s grimy hand from my breast.

My keys were in the ignition. I went to turn them. Anything to escape his ever-growing hold on me. Suddenly I felt the release of his strong grasp, but quickly felt it on my hand instead. He caught me by the wrist before I could reach the keys, and he took them instead.

I saw him fumble the fob in his dirty fingers, and then heard each of the doors unlock at the press of a button. Both of his hands moved then, one towards the door handle, and the other towards his pocket. He tucked the fob into his pocket, and left my other keys dangling from the jump ring. Now, the door was gaping open, and when the hand that once held my keys came back, it now held a knife.

I felt the pads of his fingers gripping the sensitive tendrils of my wrist. My fist reflexively closed, and I tried my best to fight against his pull. He felt my resistance, flashed his knife and said through gritted teeth,

“I don’t want to hurt you, baby. Don’t make me.” I felt my fear drain the mobility out of me. Then I couldn’t fight his pull any longer. I felt my body spill out of the van, and onto my knees. Only a second later I was pulled to my feet, and being pulled closer to his truck.

He brought me to near the edge of the ditch on the opposite side of the road. Upon looking over the edge, a steep fall glared back at me, eventually leading to the canal. Now it was just moonlight rippling across water almost black. I’d seen the beauty of the moonrise every night over the preceding months, but as I was forced to my knees, my feet dangling over the side of the dirt road, I realized this one may be my last.

I had lost sight of Novachka, and just apologized to her through a pleading mouth and watering eyes. The man balled my hair into his fist, and held it tight against my skull. Then, he reached towards his belt and began undoing it.

Where does your mind go before something bad happens? The nihilist in me had imagined what I may do in a life-or-death situation. Would I fight for my life? Or would I submit, knowing I was meant to die young, and just let myself prove me right?

They say the brain will ‘checkout’ of traumatic situations. The sympathetic nervous system does its job to mute what’s happening. I felt my vision grow cloudy, like crystals forming along the edge of a cold windshield. That cold spread across my body, like it reverted to the comfort of Minnesota, where I would’ve been in this moment if I valued my life. But I didn’t, right? I didn’t care if I died, and my proof was right here in my inaction. In my frozen state.

Time seemed to freeze over. Everything felt cold, I was losing myself in this moment as my brain tried to protect me. The night air was drafting over my skin, and covering me in chills. The only warmth I felt was the tears that seemed to burn my cheeks. The man reached for the button of his jeans, and used his grip on my hair to move my head closer. I clamped my eyes shut, and felt the fire stream down my cheeks. I gave in.

Then, a sudden thrum of my eardrum brought me out of my frozen haze. I felt the tension in my hair go loose, and something splash across my face. Reflexively, I smeared the back of my hand across my wet cheek, and gazed down to see red. In the heat of the moment, I wondered where I was bleeding. I looked towards the man who had finally released his grip on me, and realized it was his blood.

Novachka had clamped her jaws around the man’s palm whose tendrils were reaching with sinister intent. The sound that had thawed me was the screech of this man. The blood from the puncture from Novachka’s canines around his palm. He tried his hardest to shake her off, but she had locked her jaw deep into the side of his hand. The arm that had pulled me out of the van now had 45 lbs growling, gnawing, and dangling from him, his vulnerable extremity.

I felt the surge of adrenaline warm my body. I wasn’t stuck anymore, I wasn’t frozen, and my eyes were set on my protector, Novachka. I wanted to save her. And I wanted to save myself. Our escape clinked against the pocket of his jeans. I reached for them and darted forward onto my hands. My hands scraped against the dirt road and barely pushed me to my feet. Each step under me was fierce with hopes of escape. I raced back to my van and jumped inside the driver’s side door that I was grateful to be opened now. My hands were clammy and shaking around the fob. It clattered against the ignition’s slot but eventually shoved in, the force of my unsteady fist behind it. The ignition roared alive, and before I could glance towards Novachka to call her in, I saw her running across the road towards me. I could only see the outline of the crumpled man against his truck. Then I felt her in my lap again, panting and wide-eyed just like me. I slammed the driver door shut and put her into gear. My foot hit the floor with desperation, and I launched my van out of the slanted spot and onto the narrow road.

Just when I thought I had escaped, I saw how slim my route of escape was. The man’s truck was still in the road, and my only way out was to drop into the ditch and hope that I came up the other side. I had no time to think. I just drove.

I felt my body go rigid as I plunged towards the drop at the edge of the road. The front end of my van fell first, and I heard my bumper crush against the ground before I felt the bounce back, just to have my back bumper hit the same way. The whole van shook back and forth, and I clasped my hand to the wheel, my other around Nova’s body. Branches from bushes crackled underneath the van as I ripped through them. Then, I turned my wheel in hopes of using this momentum towards the 4-foot slope leading to my exit. I braced my already stiff body, and pressed the pedal further down.

The front left wheel hit the curve first, and I felt the van redirect abruptly. I feared it would be too much, too fast. That I may flip the top-heavy van. My body curved with the body of it, and my vision out the windshield reached a 45* angle. Almost. Just as we were about to twist past the point of no return, I felt the left side of the vehicle grip the edge of the dirt road. The speed of the van drew me up out of the ditch, and bounced us onto the road in one piece. I swerved as not to fall off the other end of it, and discovered just how fast this van could go.

I raced down this stretch of road, leaving a plume of dirt behind me. I barely remembered to turn on my headlights, and release Novachka from my tight grip. I drove. My foot was stiff against the pedal as we swept the miles underneath us. We were racing, but my mind was calm. I could feel tears well in my eyes again, and the vigor of my pounding heart. Each second we drove, I felt the gratitude in my chest as I breathed another breath. I knew then what I always knew to be true: I never wanted to die young. I went on this grand drive to find myself happier on the other side. When it came to the end I thought I was so prepared for, I felt something in me I never had before. I realized I didn’t want the end to come just yet. Though I had yet to find my happiest self, I saw glimpses of her in a thousand little moments. Then, an unfamiliar flutter in my heart that came alongside this realization—my will to live. Those little moments of happy became my reason to live. I’d continue to chase these moments, and give myself grace through their recurring oppositions.

I still had my nihilistic mentality, but with that, I suddenly had a life that meant something to me. My thoughts now, are that—hopefully far in the future—when I meet the other side, I know I’ll leave happy.

If you promise me forever, 
You’ll be proven a liar
Nothing lasts so long, 
Even the strongest of loves.

Your every “I love you”
Now tainted in untruth. 
If you’d lie about forever, 
Then you’d lie about love too.

I need not wait for forever
To see my truth come true.
I knew the day would come, 
You without me, me without you.

Luckily I knew.
Now I treasure 
Our yesterdays and
Hope for tomorrows.

Let the past hold our sorrow
And for our future loves
We won’t promise the future
We’ll promise the now.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

Without a nudge here and there, it can be hard to show up for/as your inner artist. So, I decided to host a recurring meeting where fellow creatives can come together, and be that “nudge” we all need sometimes.

Come chat art w other creatives, network, or just vibe!

The meeting is highly accessible (held via Zoom) and open to all artists, of all mediums and experience.

A. Song’s Artists Anonymous occurs on the first Friday of every month, 7:30PM Central.

Click the button below for more details or if you’d like to join us.

I want to join Artists Anonymous!

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Nights like these
The crave of intimacy.

I’ve three hundred ply to lie upon
But cry at the thought of a love gone.

Keeping my blinds open
Even if neighbor’s eyes catch mine tearing.

For any chance to be seen
Could shed light on this shadowed feeling.

Maybe somebody out there feels the same
8 billion of us, so “yes” is safe to say.

I know I’ll fall to sleep in silence.
Saving me from shame but stealing me from reverence.

Until I find solace in my dreams
During nights like these.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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Science tried to explain away the accurately named ‘shooting star.’ But the truth behind these silver streaks across dark is more literal than you’d think. The only reason you can gaze upon the sky, and catch a glimpse of a shooting star is because of one star’s bravery, long ago. That star’s name was Soul.

Soul was amongst 400 billion stars. All of which gazed upon Earth just as we gaze upon them today. Each star, love and curiosity within them, would ponder the blue-green twirl. Earth was a mystery to them, but an intriguing one to say the least. But stars, wise beyond their billion years, were equally hesitant as they were curious. For it was safe in the galaxy. The dark cloak held their flame perfectly. All of the stars were content in their curiosity, and left Earth a mystery. Until one fateful day.

An asteroid, amongst many, came right across Soul. Sure, he could’ve let the large rock pass right through. But after another measureless amount of monotonous time in black, Soul decided to let his blaze envelope the asteroid. The jagged edges slowly became aglow in Soul’s flame. Soul knew this asteroid may float him across the endless galaxy, or could act as a vehicle to the curious spin below. Taking the chance, the asteroid grew ablaze in heat. It grew in flame and glowed with a ravenous red. The asteroid, heating up, began to spin with all of this energy surrounding it. It spun faster, then faster still, until it eventually began hurtling closer to Soul’s answer to all the stars’ curiosities.

Soul felt the dark cage break. Before long, this blue-green beauty was getting bigger than he could have ever imagined. Then larger still. What once looked like a spinning fleck in the distance was now encompassing Soul’s visual reality. Plummeting, and heating up to temperatures he’d never felt before, he was invigorated, but fearful too. He was the first star to take this journey down, and what lay ahead was unknown to him. He felt his flame rage on through his fear, and felt free in a way he’d never understood before. The fire of Soul was the greatest it had ever been. He feared his light may go out completely before reaching his answer. Before he could worry any longer, it hit him.

It felt like everything and nothing all at once, entering what he’d come to know as Earth’s atmosphere. The asteroid that brought him down had become far too hot. After traveling that great distance he felt it crack within him. He trembled in nerves but tried to hold strong. Soul was holding the asteroid together while his heat simultaneously broke it apart. Then, singed flecks of ember, just small sparks began falling off. Piece by piece this asteroid broke into hundreds, thousands of sparks. Soul was being shattered into a million particles. He wondered if he would ever be whole again.

Soul could feel only glimmers of himself in each piece. Now a sparkling dust cloud, he dispersed as he neared Earth, falling like leaves in Autumn. The drift of air carried pieces of him all around the Earth, each one looking for some place warm to keep Soul alive. That warmth he found was in the warm beings of Earth. Some human, some animal. Some were on land, some in the air, some in the sea.

Soul dispersed into many, and no matter how far each of these beings were from one another, he felt himself within each of them. He had taken the risk of traveling down to Earth, and had come to discover its beauty, and to answer the question of that blue-green twirl. Now, he would experience it in thousands of lives. Over time he would feel himself as many people, dogs, whales, birds, over many layered lived. Then each time one of these lives would run into another, he’d feel a spark as part of him connected again.

So after 300,000 years, plenty of meetings—sparks—have occurred. Pieces of Soul coming together again. He would stay on Earth until all of Soul’s pieces, his mates could unite again. But until then, he’d enjoy every little spark when a piece of him would inevitably find another

.

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how sharp the knife
we call shame. 
i can think of
nothing to dull its blade.
the feeling may subside,
it comes in waves.
but this time is proving hard,
i cannot withstand the pain.
now it splits me
in two, only myself to blame.
the scars left behind
each of them may fade.
but how much damage
can one body take?
until it’s broken past return,
too damage, too frayed. 
alone, will i make it?
or will my body lay claim,
and rest upon the familiar
sharpness of shame.

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This man, wiser than I, but
Our souls are the same, layers of
Lives have held us together in
Endless refrain.

But in this life the journey proved queer
Finding our love through that which
Only we could hear 

Even now, our eyes have not met.
Our journeys have paralleled,
But've not crossed yet.

I cannot continue
Our connection the same

So I'm left questioning the
Last thing he said,
"Does love always find a way?"

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if god exists,
why did he create me
in this in-between.

salt on my body, seeping
into open wounds, sweetly
I request reprieve.
craving the quench of a love so 
deep, that I gasp for air in 
all its consuming.

but too shallow that water, 
misplaced and misleading,
instead, feel it swelling 
behind dry eyes 
begging release.

I lament:
I crave love, 
or I crave relief.
please do not tantalize me.

soothe my sorrows
with love as my salve
or let the salt drain from me,
carving paths down my freckled cheeks
if neither, then life in me will cease.

all I asked was for love or relief.
if god exists,
why did he create me 
in this in-between.

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Small hands squished around 
even smaller globs of clay. 
Twenty-four in class; young minds,
malleable as the clay we held.  
As a Christmas miracle, we were bestowed
the ability to make anything our hearts desired.
Music lulled the classroom into a focused frenzy 
of creativity and play.  

I found myself immersed in the making of 
my very own bunny.  
I had asked Him for one on the eve of 
His birth.

I believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, 
He, and the Magic within me.  
My bunny made of clay 
may not have had the soft fluff,
the glimmering white, but he would.
He would grant my Christmas wish
I knew.

I took my bunny home, daydreaming of waking,
he, alive in my hands.  
Until then, on my nightstand, 
petting him until he was soothed,
my hopes and dreams had seeped into him.  
I went to bed knowing 
I would awake with my lively bunny.  

I dreamt of him, my sweet bunny
But He never showed. When I awoke, 
he lay there as I had left him hours before.  
That was the moment I began to question the 
magic I once believed.  
Back then, I knew that magic 
By a different name.

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“You only get one shot”
Is the common saying,
But not here.
Here, you’ll get ten.

The first will take your life.
The remaining nine are a show
Of who is in power,
Of our rights being stripped,
If they ever existed at all.

Rest in peace to the strongest of us,
Those who fight for what’s right,
For what's 'Good'
For what’s humane.

We must continue the fight.
After all, we get more than
One shot, don’t we.

Hell freezing over is the only way I can ration
With the chaos.
My friends are being taken 
By those meant to protect us.
Neighbors being frightened over who may be 
Next a woman with child, one on her hand
One in her belly, don’t make it to fight another day
Minnesota is known for its cold winters
But this is the coldest, most hostile, and
Inhumane one yet.

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Today, coffee meets cream, swirling then
Folding into one another, as I do my lover.
Their gaze on me, through eyes that’ve just touched
Morning air.  I dive into their eyes, and their fingers 
Through my hair.  

There, on the sidewalk outside our apartment 
I’ve walked many times before, a stranger 
Glides by, grazes my shoulder.
A smile tugs at my lips, and the same one on his, 
We excuse ourselves but grin like old friends.  

Today feels different; a lightness in my feet.  It carries me
Down golden road, covered in sun’s heat.  
Day’s like this are rare, but loud in serendipity.
Though unpredictable, they always return.  

Amongst them days of thrill, some of sorrow, some of will, 
Some of ease, or fire and fume.  Some will be happy
Some full of gloom.  What tomorrow brings I do not know,
Today though, fate twists the day’s events into 
All that I know of a day full of bloom.

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How my ears crave the hush of 
your voice whose shape I can’t quite 
trace, your body I’ve never known but
dream to. 

Your beautiful mind, and mine.
We’ve walked few paths of each other’s
But to the rest we are blind.  I wonder
How long you’ll wait

For me to trace more than your voice
With a touch of my own.  Grace my 
presence with yours, you will
I promise.  It’s only a short time between
Your beautiful mind and mine.

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Eomma kisses her grandchild goodbye
And I see glimpses of a younger her and I 
Watch from afar, glistening twilight behind.

I’m nearly inclined to go closer but
I bide my time, I remain 
on the sideline and take in
the scene of my family before me.

My siblings now the age I called my 
parents ‘young,’ but it doesn’t feel the same.
Not with me trailing shortly behind. 

How many more years will I have?
Three generations; the ones who made me
The next two by proxy.

I believe nothing lasts forever
But I’ll still dream
that forever comes 
of this memory.

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It's to be said of all things
But you are the only
That pained me to let go

Of all the emotions love brings
Each filled with lively complexity
And a vigor in them as they grow.

Like all else, their end will come, bending 
To time’s pull, dropping seeds
Of love, which I will sow.

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Suited on a cliff and
Facing the shore
I’m left to wonder if you’ve ever
Considered a time 
Where instead of her arms
You wake up in mine.

These are the days of our lives
I know you remember. 
With what love will we be left 
To live forever.

One filled with gratitude 
Without regret.
Only to look forward
Never to look back, I’ll say,
“Maybe Another Time."

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Through cracks in the wall not of your creation,
I glimpse you with quiet consideration.
Not built by your hands, yet still it remains,
a structure between us, silent with strain.

And still, your words manage to slip through,
Fragments of thought, both tender and true.
Thank you for letting me see what you show,
The parts of yourself you quietly stow.

What you have shared, I hold with care,
Not out of duty, but reverent air.
Your secrets, like relics, I cradle inside,
Not to uncover, but simply to bide.

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