Solitary Chronicles

My soul is silent, but my ears are open.

We marched like soldiers to the canyon,
dressed for battle against the currents.
My eyes were glued to the ground,
as I walked over each rock,
When I looked up our guide threw up his hand
and we circled around while he gave us the plan.
when we broke he stepped up to the edge
and beckoned one of us over,
I went first.
The water was roaring
he pointed out and yelled:
"jump in the white water"
without hesitation I leaped.

Your right, I never think ahead.
And although I walk through the streets
with a limp,
I sleep at night with the memory
of that one fall, where the water turned into mist
before it hit the ground.

I awoke this morning on a beach in the French Riviera. The water's brilliant color blue cascades to milky white as it crashes on shore. There is no sand, but smooth rocks piled upon eachother, like a barrackade keeping the tide from soaking everything I own. And when that saline crest reaches its climax, its falls back; retreats into itself, and one by one the rocks are pulled down with it, creating a sound so tranquilizing, description becomes impossible.

Now I sit on a balcony in the swiss alpes. The air is cold, and the scent of alpine is everywhere. I am about to leave for a canyon high in the mountains, where I will bungee jump four hundred and fifty feet.

    The streets were burning with midnight passion,
And the smoke clouded a star gazing night.
        I walked alone down a dimly lit alley way,
Much alike many before,
                      And yet I stopped abruptly,
Because I had suddenly realized where I was.
      An old shop keeper leaned out her window,
Green eyes penetrated mine, almost asking,
      "Etes-vous perdu?"
I knew that I was, more than ever before,
      But how could I truley be lost,
                       If I have no where to go?

         We all met at Tanners house. Each one of us making small talk and cracking jokes. The sun was still high in the air when we set out towards something we had forgotten. With no particular direction in mind I found myself walking at the back of the group, listening to all, and observing all. We walked past our old and weathered elementary school, and all the portable classrooms that were strewn out on the field. The steps beside the gym were still welcoming our carefree minds, yet they seemed much smaller and weaker. While we all felt the anxiety of the future weighing our shoulders down, it seemed if we tried them they would break. The air was resilient with the sounds of summer, and our collective compass pointed north. Towards the old oak tree that the forest used to conceal, but was now exposed and surrounded by parking lots and office buildings. We all sat down on the logs, as silence casted a shadow on our reunion, I leaned back against the tree, and a small piece of glass caught my eye ever so subtly. When I picked it up I was surprised to see my own reflection, or shocked because I was so young, and for a split second when I looked up again, I saw everyone five years younger, wasting time in the shade of the oak tree. Right then I realized this would be the last night of my childhood, of our childhood, because it was only when we all were together when we really felt like kids. Most of us were leading different paths this summer, and it was likely that we wouldn't all meet up again, so we set out once more, eager for one last adventure, and one last trip.

   The Great Blue Heron can show you all about it. There's one in front of me now, standing in the water. Not troubled by my presence, but reposed. It scans the shoreline with its neck curled, waiting for the moment to scoop up a small fish, in which it then gulps down and stretches its wings, as if it were just too easy.
   When the small repair machines came roaring down the track, with their radio's blaring, most of the seagulls grew uneasy, and the crows took flight, but the Great Blue simply waited.
   Some random jogger, Adam, or Phillip, or whatever his name was, averted my attention to some christian auditorium he and two thousand other people go to. He said it would stop my soul from vaporizing into the air, and that God would give me his word.
   "Oh forget about that, will ya?" He said, addressing the heron. He couldn't have said more about religion in that single phrase. Forget about it. God will fix your problems. God has every thing planned for you. "I'm going to pray for you tonight" He told me. I looked back, but could only see the rocky shore now, and the small stretch of sand, empty. Then he actually started climbing down the rocks, "I've got something I want to give you," referring to a small brochure in his back pocket. "On Saturday we are going to pray for the sick," he jabbed the paper into my hands.
   "I'm sorry but I don't believe in Christianity," I said, folding the paper in half.
   "Oh! You don't have to believe in god! you ca-
   "No, what I mean is, I don't believe in your way of life."
   "Pardon?"
   "The way that you live, talking to your hands every night. It's delusional. If you want to help sick people why don't you spend your time actually helping sick people? If you just pray for god to do it, then that's just selfish; it's making you feel like you've actually done something for them. Then you can go live your life under a cloud that makes you comfortable. Sorry, this is not for me. I would much rather live every day knowing that there are sick and dying people out there who need help. I would let that feeling of pity grow, and then harvest it when I have the chance to lend a hand."
   "I know you will think differently if you just give this a chance, let me tell you a story. . "
   Well It looks like my patience does have a limit, because I picked up my bag and walked away. I tried to let myself regress back to that pastoral state of mind I had going on. I sat down, and opened a copy of Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, and it wasn't long until I saw it again. The long yellow bill of the Great Blue Heron stood out against the shore. It had been there all along, behind the rocks, peeking around the edges.

As I sleep my nights away, thousands of neurons are firing off. My consciousness oscillates in and out of the slow wave, while a room of mirrors opens in my mind. One in which mirrors shape and bend my thoughts. Fragments of my waking life adapt into random alterations, and find I'm always looking for a pattern. Always searching for order and understanding in it all. Five cycles from awake to rapid eye movement sleep, but when the cycle is broken, the brain stem can be slow to catch up. I find myself unable to move any muscles during sleep, paralyzed. My sensory input amplifies and distorts my surroundings into childhood fears, while that nagging authoritative peace keeper my mind establishes itself to be, fights for freedom.