The first time we met, he asked me to the movies. For some reason, movies as first dates have a bad reputation. People say you cannot get to know someone when you are sitting silently in the dark for two hours. But I think that’s exactly what makes them so good.

Whether you are both desperately excited to see the movie or hardly interested at all, the magic of a movie for a first date still works. If it is the former, the two of you become enthralled by the same thing at the same time. You laugh together, tense together, wait for the same resolution. By the time the credits roll, you already have an intimate shared experience--which is exactly what you want with this cute stranger, no? If it is the latter, as it was for us, the movie gives you something I personally find even better: a long stretch of verbal silence, and therefore plenty of room to think.

The movie he chose for us was Crazy Rich Asians. It was perfectly light-hearted enough to give half my attention to, since the other half was on him. I took turns watching the blown up scene on the wall-sized screen, and letting my sight drift to my right.

He took up his chair confidently. A slight slouch of his back, and his legs stretching a comfortable distance apart. His knee would have grazed mine if I had allowed myself the same relaxed posture. I did not. For the time being, only my eyes were brave enough to make the trip across the armrest between us.

That is another reason movies make such good first dates. When you sit across from someone at dinner, the race to fill empty silence leaves no room for curiosity to grow. It’s a rapid-fire of questions that are much better discovered instead of asked outright. But in the theater, you’re allowed to simply sit beside someone and wonder about them.

And I wondered about him.

Every minute that went by, the space we shared felt more intimate. Questions about this stranger bubbled up inside me. I found myself wondering if the musk rising off him was his signature scent. It was of teak and something sweet that I couldn’t quite place, but loved. The scent pulled me close enough to see a small scar tracing one of his knuckles. I imagined later how he would regale me with a clumsy, childhood story as explanation. But most of all, I wanted to know what he felt in that moment, and if this undeniable pull I felt toward him was mutual.

Throughout the movie, I could feel a tension mounting between us, and from it came increasingly elaborate ideas about how I could ease it. Maybe if I move my arm onto the armrest, he will move his too. Or should I leave my hand palm-up—a classic, but maybe too obvious? I mean, was obvious necessarily bad?

As I flipped through these imagined scenes, I felt all the symptoms of a developing crush, and reveled in them. So much so, I giggled at myself for paying more attention to the movie playing in my head instead of the one playing on screen. During climax, I reflexively glanced toward him with a sweet earnestness. The way he matched my gaze felt like the movie in my head would have a happy ending too.

We continued like that, stealing glances and retreating to the screen whenever one of us got caught. Look, retreat. Look again.

After a handsome, half-smile from him, I finally had the courage to leave my arm where our last glance had been. He immediately shifted his body toward me, but only slightly, leaning his elbow against the ledge of the armrest and finally closing the gap between us.

My body sizzled at the contact. There were fireworks onscreen, and for a moment they seemed to be going off inside me too.

It was during the wedding ceremony that he held my hand. The wedding in the movie, that is, though the cheeky, teen excitement inside me was enough to ring bells,

I liked the way his hand did not go slack in mine. We both tightened our fingers around the other’s, and I could feel the back of his hand beneath my fingertips. They traced the divots of his knuckles, and settled next to that curious little scar. He shared this seemingly small part of him, but through it, I felt as though the whole of him were holding the whole of me.

The credits rolled, but neither of us moved. Instead we sat there, simmering in the impossible familiarity grown between two strangers. All without saying a word.

That is what I think people misunderstand about movie dates. Getting to know someone does not happen exclusively through conversation. Some of the clearest signs of compatibility are entirely wordless.

I learned on this first date what grew to be the core of our love: we shared the same off-brand humor. It wasn’t during the scenes built for comedic relief, or any of Akwafina’s lines. Instead, I’d hear his chuckle echo mine during times that the rest of the theater was silent.

We got to separate the nerves of talking to each other from the nerves of simply being next to each other, and take those intimacies one at a time. And after sharing those hours of forced silence, both of us were brimming with things to say. Enough to fill the entire two mile walk to his one-bed that only a few months later I’d call home.

That movie was the start to a whirlwind romance that will forever leave a sweet taste in my mouth.

So when it comes to first dates, don’t talk. At least, not the whole time. Sit beside them and let the tension (if any) build. See what makes them laugh. Flirt wordlessly and see who makes the first move. There will be plenty of time to learn their favorite color, where they grew up, and what they do for work. Instead, find out what’s important: whether the two of you together creates that *spark* that can’t be put into words.

ty for reading.

xo,

A.

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Send me to the movies

Of all the Grecian myths
You shared with me but one,

A tale of ancient treachery,
A father and his son.

Though your sin was of another kind,
What followed still was pain, 
Since you reached for the apple,
Now knowing of its name.

Then stooped your lips toward water,
Though you knew you shouldn’t.
You thirsted for what I withheld,
And give to you, I couldn’t.

For you knew well the laws
Of the kingdom where we came,
But I know it is not only you
Nor only I to blame.

Still, every time you reach for me,
The branches draw away;
And every time you thirst for me,
The water will not stay.

I’m sorry to have made of you
A man condemned to this,
To hunger for forbidden fruit,
To thirst for our first kiss.

But yours is not eternal, love,
No sentence from the gods.
No fruit is bound above your head,
No water lies at odds.

You need not bear forever
The punishment of Tantalus.
Since there is a way to end your curse:
Forget that I exist.

Slowly, I brought myself back to my feet. I was light-headed and floating in the euphoria of having listened to only my body, folding and contorting in every which way she told me.

I made my way up the stairs of the ashram, using my terribly accented Hindi to greet the teachers and employees I saw on the way up to my room. On the way, I flung my damp mat over the balcony rail, and looked out into the distance for just a moment. There I saw the freedom of two birds, dancing in the air in play and song.

I decided I’d treat myself to the same.

After a shower to rinse off the ballast I’d wrung out of me, I slathered my body in oil of amber, vanilla, and teakwood. A little concoction of smells I love that I’d made up to invite even more of the things I love. Like attracts like, no?

The oil created a hydrophobic altercation all over my skin, and any of the steamy shower that remained beaded off of me. I went to my wardrobe made up almost completely of baggy cotton garments, save for my classic black, midi dress. It’s in my suitcase no matter where my destination, since it never fails to come in handy. Did I plan to go out dancing during my month of yoga study? No. Did I bring my black dress anyway? Yes, and I’m sure glad I did.

Not to cover its exterior in oil stains, I slid the dress up my body after carefully stepping each foot between the spaghetti straps. Parts of silk gripped at my skin as the dress that hugs every curve of me made its way up. I tucked my arms into the openings of the straps, and settled into the dress’s embrace.

My hair was still sopping wet, so I opted to take a Rapido—a scooter ride driven by an app-based driver—and figured my hair could blow up into its mess of curls and beloved frizz along the way. Just before my driver arrived, I slid my favorite red lipstick across my lips, and gave myself a cheeky smile in the window’s faint reflection.

Outside, I stepped over the craters that sprinkled over the dirt road and found the scooter with my driver waving to me. Gently, I placed one hand on his shoulder, and the other gripped at the hem of my dress. I tossed my leg over the back seat, and took what felt like a casual amount of distance between my lap and the behind of the stranger.

The ride was chaotic and lovely. The sun had set just an hour before, and the sky was a vibrant, deep indigo. My driver, whose name I later learned in the ride, seamlessly wove the two of us through the moon-like stretch of village road. Anil drove us slowly until we hit pavement, and he showed me the meaning of his name. Wind caught my wet tendrils of hair and brought them into the air straight behind me. Reflexively, my thighs tightened and I pressed my fingers a little harder around his shoulders. I couldn’t help but smile as we sped through the stand-still of tuktuks and cars waiting for stoplights that we apparently didn’t have to.

The driving felt lawless, and I was delighted to be a blameless passenger. A thrilling hour passed, after which I was newly invigorated and with a fresh blowout. I handed him the 250 rupees, and when he asked for my number, I gave him a hug instead. My smile from the wind-filled ride lasted the whole trek up the paved but winding road.

Tapovan has a noise ordinance that begins at 10PM, so any parties are thrown in secret, with their locations being shared only last minute. A loose tease of the party’s whereabouts were shared along the grapevine, so I meandered my way towards it.

It was about 9:30, and the streets were still bustling with people. Night markets, restaurants, late night cafes, and street vendors surrounded me, all doused in that delectable sound of Hindi. With only a few words in my vocabulary, I just enjoyed its syrupy sweetness as it slipped off the tongues of those around me.

For a bit of modesty as well as my show of admiration for Indian dress, I wore a large scarf that draped across my chest and shoulders. Maybe a little part of me thought I would be more likely to pass in the crowd alongside everyone else. But of course a body quarter-filled with tattoos against fair, East Asian skin would do no such thing. I responded to stares with my palms met at heart center, and a smile.

I think to myself that I should be used to not looking like the people around me. I’ve yet to be in a situation where I do, but something about not having the language abilities to back it up still makes me a bit nervous.

With that said, it was quite a delight to hear a hello, how are you, slip from the lips of a tall mister gliding past me. I stood still a moment, and only tweaked the edge of my red lips. I’d yet to find the party I was headed to, so what was the harm in returning a hello?

By the time I made up my mind, he and his bright red button down were a ways up the winding street. I tightened my toes against the base of my silver sandals, and danced my way through the lively crowd. His height, his shiny curls, and his bright garb were easy enough to follow. Before long, I felt the shape of his right shoulder beneath my fingertips. He turned to me with a smile, and reacting to his voice I said, where are you from? His smile broadened more as his eyes placed me as the girl from minutes before. I smiled back, and we fell into conversation together.

Nearly an hour of conversation slipped into the velvety air behind us before we spoke about our plans before having met one another. He had intended on going for a short walk before going to bed, and I told him about the illusive party I had yet to find. We stood still along the side of the road, and gave one another the chance to go on with our nights as planned.

My eyes lingered on his, and he matched my gaze. His broad smile had smoothed into a sweet smirk of sorts, and his eyes remained soft.

Let’s go to the party together. Our faces mirrored each other’s in charmed accord.

Just then, someone shouted his name—which was that of a Disney prince, but for the sake of his anonymity, let’s call him—

Jinn!

Without a second’s thought, Jinn grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the man who called to him. He was just closing up his cafe for the evening, but by the sound of their reunion, they knew each other from once or twice before. Jinn’s friend soon became my own, as he invited us to sit on the rooftop of his cafe.

I could only imagine how lovely it must be during its open hours, but I couldn’t help but think the best time may be near-midnight. We had ascended 3 floors to reach a paved terrace where we bundled our shoes at the entrance. I stepped down onto the cool cement, and went right to the edge of the roof. Scattered building lights filled the nearby view, but past that, the lights diminished and left the delicate outlines of trees silhouetted against far off mountains.

It was so much quieter up here than in the street, and I felt his eyes on me. I turned with a smile like gratitude, doe eyed, and said

I love it up here.

Jinn’s friend rolled a blunt and let the smoke and his music fill the open space above us. The sticky, burnt aroma stayed just long enough to soak our conversation into a slow, thoughtful cadence. We eased into topics on love, life, beliefs, and more with the comfort of old friends and the curiosity of a strangers.

How lucky is this? Where we are right now? He said to me. I returned a smile with stars in my eyes and agreed.

But things like this happen to you a lot, don’t they? My eyes remained gleaming, and I didn’t correct him.

Me too, he said.

I think the people that trust in what’s to come experience luck all the time, I said to him.

The stars in my eyes flitted into his and mirrored the sparkled sky above.

It was Jinn’s friend who broke the silence and reminded me of the party I came out for, but it was the last thing on my mind. Like the birds from before, I was already up in the sky filled with song and play. I thanked them for the perfect evening, and said I needn’t anything more.

They both asked where I was going, and I said simply that I would just book the nearest hostel. They both chuckled a bit and stared at me incredulously. They told me the chances of me finding an available room so late on a Saturday were slim, but I reassured them of my luck in these things, and began to grab my things to go.

I thanked them both again, and hugged Jinn’s friend. A tight, congenial hug with a lingering and affable hand. Though I felt within me a craving for more time with Jinn, I knew it was hours past his ‘short walk’ he had in mind. I opened my arms to him, and he stood from his chair to reciprocate. I leaned into him fully, and against the cooling air of midnight, I let the warmth of him seep into me.

In almost a whisper he said, I’ll take you.

I lifted my head from his chest and studied his face. His soft eyes were now heavy-lidded but his smirk was as sweet as before. I agreed, and we both said goodbye to his friend.

The hot press of our bodies together planted a curiosity in the both of us, and as if to keep at least a bit of that captivating and tantalizing touch, he gestured to take my hand. He guided me down the narrow stairwells until we found our way back to the street. It was quiet now, with only a few vendors still selling food. While we meandered our way to an area with more hostels, he spotted a stand and asked me if I had had momos before. With only a slight shake of my head, he was off to stand in line for us.

I found a stoop for us to sit on, and he joined me there moments later. Steam rose from 6 perfectly shaped rounds of supple dough. He stabbed one with a toothpick, and blew on it before letting the savory scent hover just before my lips and nose. I opened my mouth, and let my lips slide around the slick ball before he pulled the toothpick from inside. It left the slightest hole for the juice of seasoned meat and veg to drip onto my tongue. He used the same toothpick to join in the sweltering dance of fresh momos on tastebuds.

After, we walked along the winding back alleys between buildings, and talked about our past loves. We took turns sharing what we valued most in our connections, sensuality being a recurring word. Suddenly I could feel the curiosity that his touch had placed grow in me. We stood facing one another, stopping in the middle of the empty street. I looked at his hand, and let the tips of my fingers meet his. My waist grew warm with the pull of his hand. Naturally, I tilted onto my tip-toes and felt my eye-lids grow heavy in hopes of letting my other senses take him in.

HONK HONK. A singular headlight from up the street flooded over us and our vision. A second later we were greeted with the profile of a black motorcycle, and a friendly face—Jinn’s friend from earlier. He offered us a ride to the bridge we were headed towards. With 1am quickly approaching, who were we to say no?

Jinn grabbed my hand, tenderly now, with only a lingering sense of the fervent desire that had boiled up between us moments before. He helped me onto the motorcycle, and slid in behind me.

It was common to see around here, three people to a bike, but it felt intoxicating. Like the wind from the ride before had blown up into a powerful gust. I still felt the tension of a first kiss lingering just behind me. For us to fit, he pressed against me, incredibly close.

I felt the shape of him and his heat pouring into me from behind, his thighs outlining mine. With the bumps ahead on the suddenly unpaved road, I couldn’t help but laugh and let the temptuous desire escape my body.

Several minutes later, the bridge was in sight, and lit in scarlet lights. We bid his friend farewell, with another thank you as sincere as the last. The sound of his bike dwindled as he drove further away with a wave. Jinn and I shared slight smiles below blushed cheeks, and continued together, side by side.

Wind hurdled off the river, insisting its power against the glass bridge. The Ganga flowed beneath us in a similar voracity, and it felt like Mother Nature coursing its power around me. Jinn turned what was meant to be a barrier into a break, and invited me into a closed portion of the foot bridge that brought us deeper into the swell.

I felt streaks of tears caress the edges of my eyes as the wind carried on. Another large gust took my balance, and I stepped back only a foot before his warmth returned to catch me, and my curiosity burned with it. I simmered in his touch and continued my gaze against the Ganga. His eyes on me like a dare to look back.

Instead, I suddenly grabbed his hand and led him across the bridge. An abrupt shyness had overcome me, probably to counteract the out-of-character lust I had just before our almost-first kiss. He gingerly followed my strides towards the other end of the bridge. His tenderness comforted me again.

Just up the road there were several buildings with lights on. All either late night bites, or the hostels I was looking for. I turned back to finally look in his eyes, and his settled right into mine. The grip of his hand tightened, and in the slightest tug he told me to wait.

Stay with me tonight.

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xo,

A.

But this time of year is so delightful. I found myself today at the stoop of my friend’s building, basking in the perfect duo of zephyr and heat.

Each brush of wind rolled over my body like a memory, and reminded me of the beauty in that freeze that I so frivolously took myself away from. I reminisced on the way a heavy snowfall would soak up extra noise in the city, and leave it blanketed in beautiful quiet. Or the way it would delicately caress every surface outside in a layer of fluffy rosettes.

And as if the wind knew the effect it was having on me, it continued on. Each brush like a tender kiss from a past lover, and the memories that come with it. Like the hold of his hands around mine, and his hot breath blown against my numb fingers, before tucking them into his own jacket pocket. All to share our warmth in the cradle of frozen air that accompanied our walks around the city.

The last time I lived here, it was that deep love that kept me. I think the cold activates the warmth of romance out of necessity. Because it’s easy to romanticize my past in this cold place while it’s the best time of year. So I stood from the stoop and made my way back inside, forgoing the fantasies of my return.

Since I know that if I decided to stay, and concede to this tempting breeze, the bite of November would inevitably come, and leave me begging for reprieve.

I spent 20 winters here, of which the ones filled with love are the ones I look so fondly upon. Since what else but love could serve as respite for the sometimes bitter feel of Minnesota?

Maybe it’s less about believing every moment of our lives has been prewritten and more about considering all the tiny decisions that have to align for a moment to happen at all. You leave the house five minutes later than you planned. You miss one train and catch the next. You choose one car out of ten and stand instead of sit. Someone else, living an entirely separate life, makes their own series of seemingly insignificant decisions, and somehow, for a few minutes, your timelines intersect. Change one decision, one delay, one turn, and you might never meet at all.

I especially believe it when it comes to the people you meet. Let’s go over the stats again: there are what, 8 billion people in the world? So imagine that out of all of those people, there is someone getting on the exact train as you are, at the exact time, and standing in the perfect place for the two of you to exchange glances? Or what about the person next to you at the same grocery store, shopping for peaches at the same time as you? Sure it’s stone fruit season but does that completely negate the magical overlap? I think not.

Now I don’t know about you, but I’m a conversation starter. I hear so much discourse and hate about small talk but personally I love it. I see small talk as conversational foreplay, or at the very least, an exercise of the wonderful ability we as humans have to converse and connect on the grandest or most mundane things.

Almost every profound conversation with someone you don’t know has to begin superficially. Nobody approaches a stranger and immediately asks about their childhood wounds, greatest fear, or conception of God. We start with their shoes, or the weather, or their hair. Whatever your nerve-wracked mind thinks up before the fear of sparking conversation stops you.

Last week I was in New York w a friend of mine, and I was reminded just how strange the tendency to spark conversation has become. I had just said goodbye to a woman whose shoes I’d loved, and had said so, when he told me how baffled and almost embarrassed he is each time I start small talk w someone on the train. He tells me that “People here don’t really do that,” to which I rebuttal: How do you make friends then? How do you connect? Must every person you know already be vetted by the commonality of a mutual friend, a workplace, or gosh forbid, an APP.

Somewhere along the way, we seem to have institutionalized connection. Our friends come through other friends, our professional connections through work or LinkedIn, and increasingly, our romantic connections through dating apps. There’s almost an expectation that a stranger needs some kind of preexisting reason to speak to you. But when did a stranger stop being a potential person in our lives and become someone we’re supposed to leave alone? Of course, not everyone wants to be approached, and no one owes a stranger their attention. But I wonder if in our effort not to bother one another, we’ve also eliminated some of our opportunities to thrill one another. There has to be some space between respecting someone’s solitude and treating every person we don’t know as permanently off limits.

I credit more than my midwest roots for my tendency to spark conversation. Like anything, it takes practice. One of my favorite things to do is go on solo dates during which I make the most connections. Casual conversation to pass the time- -in line, while standing beside one another at a rack of thrifted blouses, or (especially so) with the service workers of the establishments you frequent- -only makes sense, right? Think about it, none of us would exist if it weren’t for connections like these.

For most of human history, meeting someone relied heavily on proximity, community, timing, introductions, courage, and chance. Our parents, grandparents, and every generation before them had no catalog of thousands of people to sort through first. The idea that we should be able to filter potential partners by age, height, education, politics, religion, hobbies, drinking habits, and whether they’re “looking for something serious” before ever hearing the sound of their voice is, historically speaking, pretty bizarre. Dating apps supposedly give us more possibilities, but in doing so, they also give us more ways to eliminate them. Someone you could fall madly for after meeting in a bookstore might be someone you would have swiped left on in three seconds.

Our lineage relied upon these happenstance meetings that are meeting their demise due to their online counterparts. With the deep pool of potential matches right at our fingertips, why build up the courage to say hello to someone in person? Making connections in person is dying so much that we’ve become newly fascinated with the “meetcute” because app-based introductions have made spontaneous meetings feel rarer. This is only supported by the grand sigh of a person before they tell you they met their significant other on an APP. They say it with such shame, and although I don’t believe in shame as a precursor to positive change, I don’t think it’s necessarily misplaced here.

Isn’t the commonality of being in the exact same place, at the exact same time, then on top of that, feeling a spark, enough to connect?

When I say “feeling a spark” I know you know, or I hope you know what I’m talking about. That inexplicable but absolutely palpable pull you have towards someone for some indiscriminate reason. It’s like describing love- -it comes in all different forms for all different reasons, but when you feel it, you know. Now tell me sincerely that you’ve felt this same drop-of-the-heart, chest-tightening, craving sensation while looking at a 2x2 (probably inaccurate) photo of someone. “Probably inaccurate” not because the photo doesn’t look like them (though sometimes this is also the case) but because yes, a picture is worth a thousand words, but by comparison, feeling someone’s presence in person then equates to a novel’s worth of complex novelty.

I will say, my hands are not clean when it comes to this! I’ve been a victim of the apps, but it’s why I want to shout from the rooftops what I’ve learned since being off of them. I’ve been clean of online dating for 8 months, and I don’t plan on ever returning. The conclusion I’ve come to that’s keeping me far from them is that fate doesn’t know the apps. Fate will use its magic and send two people to the store at the same time, looking for an item in the same section, and let the hanger hooks of two people tangle together just long enough for them to sustain the eye contact they couldn’t before (a true story of my own meetcute a few months back). Fate will play little games and make the beating of your heart and the butterflies in your chest feel nearly too strong to say hello. It will plant questions in your mind like “were they really looking at me?” “are they single” “do they think I’m cute?” Yes these questions are a whirlwind and can build up to what might feel like fear in the moment, but I love to try and build up the courage to push past that fear and just start the conversation.

After all, fate isn’t on the apps. So taste the sweetness of the unknown and start the conversation. And if that’s too much, then try giving them a kiss.

xo,

A. Song

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Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

When it comes to difficulties of the mind, I’ve learned that knowing their intricacies is usually the only route to their resolve. This perpetual ache I had within me felt like a hollow just behind the skin of my chest. In contradiction, it felt like it filled me with a dark mist that only helped bring awareness to the space it took. I was internally drowning and externally standing motionless with an emotionless face.

Coming to know this feeling deeply, as well as granting myself the denial of the belief that I was experiencing something unique—since it’s quite ludicrous and honestly arrogant to think I am alone in this feeling, or any feeling at that—has rid me of it almost completely.

The feelings of anguish is only made larger in thinking one is alone in it. But considering all of us on Earth, and experiences plenty worse than my own, I relinquished the thought that even though this sensation is intensely shadowed and seemingly detrimental, it’s also impossible that I’ve made it up on my own. And with that realization, there was a part of this ache that dwindled. The part that feasted on what I perceived as something that made me unique, different, textured, tortured even.

Maybe it’s the magic of the late 20’s that helped me step outside of my own “tortured” mind and soul. Maybe it was my third watch of Girls and witnessing each characters’ self obsession and the demise it brought to them.

So in viewing this ache not from a solely personal perspective, and instead a communal experience-of-humanity one, I couldn’t call it ache anymore. No, it was a craving. And how on-the-nose is it that the craving was one to be held. Oh how surprising that the self-indulgent teen-turned-20-something didn’t realize all she needed was a hug. Don’t worry, with my relatively fresh and fully formed pre-frontal cortex, the irony is not lost on me.

So the craving to be held seemed more manageable. At least I knew the feeling by its actual name. But the feeling sustained in me nonetheless. It took a few more years getting to know her before she let me go at last.

Countless hugs, hand holding, a few kisses, and many verbal affirmations (that I’m still so grateful for) did not satiate this feeling. What did came on quite suddenly, though I’m sure after more reflection in the coming years it will reveal itself not to be sudden at all.

In this sudden* moment, a realization came to me during meditation (ahh yes, one of many beautiful habits I picked up over time while trying to understand the pangs of young adulthood). But the realization was quite simple, but profound in its affect. All this time I was seeking to satiate my craving to be held with an external value. Another person, an act, something tactile and other.

But as I lay in savasana, in a quiet neighborhood in Northern India, I felt every particle of my body. Its energy relenting to the Earth but its physical form remaining intact. I am held already. To exist in the physical is to be held. Then, existence itself felt like a hug.

I return to this each time that dull craving creeps in. Sure, a hug from a loved one is always welcome, but the hug I need is just waiting for me to become aware of it. For each moment my body is hugging me by holding me together.

xo,

A. Song

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

A few minutes later we found ourselves on the 2 instead. He sat nudged up next to me, not too close, but definitely letting me feel the pressure of his body against mine. I met him w the same, and I felt the warmth of him trace the outside edge of me, from my shoulder and down to my knee. We spoke while maintaining the same persistent eye contact as we had at the platform, and w that same alluring, cool voice, he brought up the idea of tension.

Some of my favorite conversations are ones that so naturally skip the small talk. After deciding to travel together, we dove into topics of love and relationships. Perfect. My favorite. And w his background in cognitive science, chatting about the experiences and sensations felt between two potential lovers—while being exactly that—felt just right.

He brought up his big question on tension and how he’s had a hard time understanding the intricacies of it. How in its fragility, it is extremely hard to grasp let alone understand. He’s right. When there’s a craving, a hope, or even just a curiosity of more happening, then the subsequent questioning of whether it’s reciprocated, that’s where tension is born. When two people experience the obvious fact that yes they could connect further, but should they? Will they? Only that growing tension may tell. Now tension can also be unrequited, though that wasn’t the case for us tonight.

By the end of our subway ride, we felt connected enough to shed light on this fact. It was sweet the way he asked, like he was asking for both the man in him, as well as the curiosity in him that was hoping to come closer to the answer of his big question on tension.

We made our way up the steps and onto the sidewalk. By then, the air was cooler and came with a slight breeze that passed over our skin. We were facing each other now, his only a few inches from mine. His finger grazed mine, and led to our hands pressed together. He closed his fingers while interlaced with mine, and I felt a small smile tug at the edge of my lips. His eyes were as dark and opaque as the night sky above us and I kept my eyes locked on them as he inched closer and parted his lips to say,

“Is this tension?”

Thank you so much for reading. This is the first of hopefully many posts in the LoveNaked series. Please consider subscribing or supporting below for more. <3

xo,

A.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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When the whirling and swirling of thoughts grow into 
Storms too dark to see through alone, 
I write to you.

Forgive me for my time away, but I’ve learned
That some clouds are only seen - 
Dreamed in my mind's eye.

So in light untainted by melancholy fog,
I let these clouds drift while I
Soak in the rays, compensating for days passed.

But fear not, I won’t ever forget the solace,
The passion I witnessed with you.
Now in this balance, I write to you, 
Whether in light, or in dark.

xo,
A. Song

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

I met a gal the other day that made me realize that. My gosh she is full of life, exuberant, carefree, and all at the ripe age of 21. I loved getting to know her, and coming to see her perspective on the big city she lived in and loved, and the smaller one she had grown up in. I so admired the courage and confidence she had as we spoke about our current endeavors and dreams of the future.

We met on the underground, I with my suitcase in tow, and her dressed like she had invented the style “y2k.” Head to toe, such a riot. She offered me the seat next to her, and I complimented her outfit. After some chats, she told me that she’s in uni, and “into fashion right now.” I gestured to her amazing outfit and questioned the “right now” bit of that statement. She laughed and divulged into a story of the first fashion show she through. What was intended to be a smaller showcase of her uni’s designers ended up being quite the hit. While there, she was asked to do another show in another country! I exploded in excitement for her, and she was so humble by saying that it’s the UK, so the neighboring country is NBD. Still though, I was thrilled for her.

Listening to her felt like learning the formative years of someone deep in the industry. Whether it was her vivacious tone against the soft rumble of the underground, or maybe she really has “it” only the future can tell. But I for one believe it’s the latter.

We agreed to grab drinks later on in Camden Lock. Immediately after leaving the train station and just a short walk away, I was immersed in what felt like a cradled pocket of the city. There were no cars in sight. Just narrow, stone laid streets and plenty of people. Some were hooting and hollering at their team’s first win in 22 years (Go Arsenal!) others were shopping at curated street style stores, more perched along the bridge and enjoying the view of Regent’s Canal. It was a buzzing Saturday evening. We stopped for drinks in a vaulted pub we found with the cheapest drinks. I ordered a champagne and took in the scenery.

While we sipped, we chatted more about what London has to offer, how Camden is cool but Central (mention of “downtown” here will get you a peculiar face) is even better, which I noted for next time. Still though, I loved it. I loved the new scenery, the people, and as we were walking more, she saw a Western themed bar and said she’d love to go in. I couldn’t help but chuckle since daisy dukes and cowboy hats is a lot of what I had just seen while in Arizona, U.S.A. We shuffled in anyway, and into the crowd of people dancing

.

The glitter, the sequins, the tinted shades were all lustrous under the magenta lights of the dance floor. The perfect pitch (in both music, and lighting) to dance. Before long I could feel my skin start to glisten with sweat and just the slightest intoxication. We danced together and tossed smiles to everyone around, until a dance line pulled us in and led us up the stairs in the club.

There we got into some conversation about dating, and how she’s open to anything right now. I asked if there was anyone she might want to talk to before we go, and she told me that it was too scary to approach someone! Right then I was blasted back to 21, and I remembered YES, it IS scary to approach someone. I just smiled and said to do whatever she’s comfy with.

We continued to dance and I smiled to myself as I realized that at some point in the last few years I had grown out of that fear. Not in any active way, but it slowly stopped feeling terrifying to me to start the conversation, to connect, to be seen.

I guess that’s why she’s come to mind, because I started a Tumblr blog to host all of my unkempt and sporadic thoughts but why? Why not here? I’ve grown out of the fear of being seen in real life, and surely that must extend to being seen online, right? But maybe being seen in my writing, my passion, is something doubly scary. Even meeting in real life, there is still the guise of a first impression, and things left unsaid. But here, there’s nothing left unsaid and that’s the point. This is where I go to put everything that was left unsaid out there.

So again, the fear. But instead of letting that slowly slide off my back, I think I’ll actively try to fight this fear, and just go for it. Expose myself, my thoughts, and just see what happens.

xo,

A.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

Because it is succulent, ravaging, enticing, excruciating, tempestuous, tantalizing, filled with endless possibilities that at times make it feel endless. But that, it is not. The one thing life is not is infinite. Maybe I’m in my own bubble and have come to the wrong conclusion that so many people seem to live as if it will not all end. But it will.

But that Memento Mori is what makes it all the more pleasurable. W that said, my love letter to life says mainly one thing: Thank you. Oh how grateful I am to be experiencing this life, and all that comes with it.

In my personal little life experience, love is at the top of the bucket list. Love in all its forms.

This is my first post here of hopefully many. It is intentionally raw, unedited, and carefree. It’s a bit undone but what’s “done” anyway?

xo,

A

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

I remember so clearly the day of my preschool graduation. I wore a white dress with a chiffon, flowy hem. It was finally time step over the wooden bridge that was built specifically for Pumpkin Patch Preschool’s graduation. Although the bridge was only a few feet long, it felt monumental crossing it. As an adult, I can look back at that moment and see how sweet it must have been: watching children of four and five walk across this homemade rite of passage. All topped with the bright orange graduation caps we had made out of craft paper and glitter the week before. So darling it all was that someone from an outsider’s perspective would not know the question that had been asked me, and was weighing on me greatly. Before the ceremony, we were asked to prepare our answer to, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” There was an incessant pressure inside me that I wonder if the other children felt as well. The question is simple enough, and surely we’d all been asked before. But something about this being a ceremonial day made me want to be honest, like I hadn’t been before.

One by one, a child would step their way across the bridge, and take in their small hand the homemade diploma to match the caps on our heads. Each student sung out brilliant answers in hopeful voices: “vet,” “doctor,” “scientist,” “teacher.” My stomach twisted slightly as I realized it was my turn. I stepped my white sandals over the bridge, and after, took the hand of my favorite teacher. She crouched to my height, asked me the question that felt life defining in the moment. The black muff of the microphone grazed against my lips, as I considered repeating one of my classmates answers as not to be the odd one out. But out came what felt true to me. “Happy.” The moment felt large for me, but before I knew it, the classmate behind me was crossing the bridge as well. I’m grateful for this memory, even if it was only a grand moment from my perspective, it led me to an important question.

Already, at five years old, I had absorbed the idea that happiness was the ultimate measurement of a good life. Already, I had placed the pressures of having a good life on my shoulders. I heard it constantly: “Are you happy?” “They must not be happy in that situation.” “If they were happy, they would not have done that to themselves.” But why is this one particular emotion considered the standard of well-being? In cultures that place strong emphasis on positivity, many people feel pressure to remain happy at all times. But I have learned since then that happiness is only one emotion among many, all of which move in and out of human life continuously. Experiences change, emotions change with them, and the pursuit of permanent happiness creates unrealistic expectations about emotional life.

So often I hear the expectation that happiness function as a permanent emotional baseline. This idea is reinforced through everyday language such as “choose happiness” or “find your happiness,” both of which imply that happiness is something stable that can be achieved and permanently maintained. Psychological research, however, directly contradicts this idea because emotions are inherently transient. They arise in response to experiences and naturally fade as circumstances shift or lose intensity. Brené Brown’s Atlas of the Heart illustrates this beautifully by emphasizing how limited emotional vocabulary often causes people to reduce their experiences to simplistic terms like “happy” or “fine”. This vagueness contributes to the illusion that happiness should dominate emotional life. In reality, expecting happiness to persist indefinitely ignores the fundamental nature of human emotion itself.

All too often, the concept of happiness being permanently secured through the right achievements, habits, or life choices is riddled in our day to day lives. This belief appears constantly in self-help culture and societal narratives surrounding success. They suggest that if people make the correct decisions, establish productive routines, and reach important milestones, lasting happiness will inevitably follow. Although certain choices can improve well-being, research suggests their emotional effects are often temporary. This phenomenon is explained through hedonic adaptation, which refers to the tendency for individuals to return to relatively stable emotional states after positive or negative events. A great example lies in those who have enjoyed major, positive life events, such as winning the lottery, and do not produce permanent increases in happiness. Over time, individuals emotionally adapt to new circumstances, and the intensity associated with those experiences diminishes, no matter what the situation or associated emotions may be. Even ideal conditions cannot permanently sustain happiness. The expectation that they should only widens the disconnect between reality and perception.

What hurts me most, and I believe hurts others as well, is believing this notion that if someone is not happy, they must have done something inherently wrong, or failed in some spectacular way. When happiness is treated as the emotional standard, any deviation from it becomes suspicious. Feelings such as sadness, frustration, loneliness, or emptiness are interpreted as problems to eliminate rather than natural aspects of human existence. Psychological research suggests this mindset may negatively affect well-being because it places people in constant evaluation of their emotional state. Subjective well-being is not defined solely through positive emotions, but through a combination of life satisfaction, positive affect, and negative affect. Negative emotions are not only inevitable, but functional. They provide information, communicate needs, and contribute to emotional growth and emotional intelligence. When these emotions are pathologized, individuals lose an important aspect of understanding themselves.

Research on well-being provides a more accurate framework for understanding emotional life. Instead of focusing exclusively on happiness, psychologists often use the concept of subjective well-being to describe a broader sense of life satisfaction. A recent study found that the percentage of Americans who described themselves as “very satisfied” with their personal lives fell from 65% in 2020 to only 44% in 2025. This decline suggests not only that emotional states fluctuate over time, but also that happiness is not a permanent condition people can simply achieve and maintain. Studies similarly show that individuals can report meaningful and fulfilling lives even when they are not consistently happy. A good life, therefore, may be less dependent on constant positive emotion and more connected to factors such as purpose, acceptance, emotional depth, and stability.

The misunderstanding of happiness is further reinforced because of how loosely the term itself is used. People frequently use “happiness” as a catch-all phrase to describe experiences ranging from peace and contentment to excitement and joy. This lack of specificity makes happiness difficult to sustain because it does not refer to one singular emotional state. Brené Brown argues that increasing emotional granularity, or the ability to accurately identify and label emotions, improves emotional understanding and regulation. When people rely too heavily on the vague concept of happiness, they overlook the complexity of emotional life and lose appreciation for the full spectrum of human experience.

The consequences of misunderstanding happiness may seem small or insignificant, but they contribute to unrealistic emotional expectations. When individuals believe they should feel happy most of the time, they often become less tolerant of discomfort and more critical of themselves whenever negative emotions arise. This creates an unrealistic emotional standard that is difficult to sustain. People are often poor predictors of what will make them happy and tend to overestimate the long-term emotional impact of future events. This miscalculation reinforces the idea that happiness is something to permanently maintain rather than temporarily experience. As a result, people may continue chasing future achievements or circumstances believing they will finally produce lasting happiness, only to discover that the feeling inevitably fades.

Reframing happiness requires a shift in perspective. I personally experienced the pressures and consequences of chasing happiness as a permanent emotional state. However, understanding the complexity of emotional life has led me toward a deeper sense of contentment with the constantly shifting nature of human emotion. Even throughout the most painful periods of my life, there has been gratitude in simply experiencing life at all. Happiness is not meant to be permanent, achievements cannot secure it forever, and negative emotions are not evidence of failure. Understanding this allows individuals to approach emotional life with greater realism and self-compassion.

Looking back, I do not regret what I said at my preschool graduation. My answer reflected a genuine desire for fulfillment and meaning. However, without a deeper understanding of what truly creates contentment, I am not sure I could ever fully recognize it. Human life cannot be reduced to one singular emotion. It is built from layers of experiences, each carrying different emotions, all temporary and necessary in their own ways. Understanding that emotional richness, rather than permanent happiness, defines a meaningful life has only deepened my appreciation for being alive.

All that to say, I’m glad I’m not happy.

xo, A. Song

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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Its return is hoped for
But never expected.

On this day 
’Twas destined, 
First a catch in my breath
While I felt my chest tighten.

My lips, my neck, and
My mind especially, 
All hot with 
Reckless abandon.  

How strong are the effects of 
A new kind of love.

This one teaching me to 
breathe anew.  So alluring
This essence,
This air, 

It imbues me with a
Fervor so perfect for
Suffusing the flame.
Transformed 
Forever, with a sweet 
Spark from this 
new kind of love.

//

Se anhela su vuelta
Pero nunca se la espera.

En este día
Así estaba escrito,
Primero, un nudo en la garganta
Mientras el pecho se me cerraba.

Mis labios, mi cuello, y
Mi mente, sobre todo,

Con una energía de 
Abandono imprudente.
Qué intensos son los efectos de
Un amor nuevo.

Este amor me enseña a
Respirar de nuevo. Tan seductora
Esta esencia,
Ese aire,

Me colma de un
Fervor tan perfecto para
Avivar la llama.

Todo transformado 
para siempre,
Con una dulce
Chispa de
Este amor nuevo.

Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well

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.

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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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Toss a Coin into the Wishing Well