"what a beautiful child" cried the magpie.
- bambi, felix salten
"a shadow in a daydream, an image too slowly dispelled, a badly exorcised complicity between the body's mechanics and the mind's complacency: everything had to be told."
- michel foucault
⢠kristina â˘19 ⢠queer â˘
⢠vegan ⢠artist ⢠naturalistâ˘
i want to believe
Somehow, I felt better when he was at my feet.
 Looking down and seeing my companion, calm and well-behaved, allowed me a moment to see a familiar face, to feel a reassuring presence. Scratching his fur grounded me, distracting me with a tangible sensation. Feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest against my leg was a rhythm I could concentrate on in moments of anxiety. Most of all, his mere presence brought to my side the constant I had for so long had to leave in my room. He was there. He was calm. He was there. There he was, my partner in life. I wasnât alone.
Of course, anxieties still arose, nerves still crept their way through my spine, and my hand still refused to raise in answer to questions. But I was able to work through some of it, more than usual. I told myself over and over that Fisher was right beside me, and how hard could it beâit was just answering a question. He was sleeping peacefully, and if he was calm, why shouldnât I be? He was relaxed enough to fall asleep and start snoring in class, which I was both amused and embarrassed by.
 After volunteering on campus in a place I could not bring him, I came home to a swinging tail; he was so excited that he was pacing back and forth and turning in place. He was âtalkingâ as I called itâa mixture of groaning whines and throaty whimpers. I love his voice, itâs one of my favourite sounds. He doesnât talk that often, and so when he does, I do my best to encourage it. It happens when heâs excited or expectant, and in this case, he was excited that I was back and probably eager to go out for a walk. I rubbed him all over, leaning into him as he passed by on his paces. Eventually I laid on my back, and he came and lay down by me. I rolled over and rubbed his belly, and he leaned into me, periodically leaning his head back to look at me, and implore more petting.
He may not invite affection as often as other dogs, but I know he still cares for me. He may not know as many commands as other dogs, but he knows enough for me. I am proud of what heâs accomplishedâat nine years old, as a shelter dog with at least 3 homes before me, and as a dog who has only known me for a year, he has learned so much and has grown tremendously alongside me. We fit together, perhaps not flawlessly, perhaps not entirely, but who can ask for perfection and completion in this world? There will always be space between things, there will never be a coupling without instances of disarray. What is important to focus on is not the attainment of perfection, but for the narrowing of gaps, the reduction of confusion. The goal should be to grow closer, not simply to touch. There is growth in even the simplest of journeys and what Fisher has taught me is to have patience and perseverance, for good things indeed begin to fill the life of one who is determined but able to enjoy the scent of a rabbit recently fled from the base of a tree.
âIt was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.â â Jack Kerouac
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a hundred thousand claws on pavement //
you are my MASTER, but NOT FOR LONG.
i will SPILL YOUR BLOOD and SAVE YOUR EYES
so that you can WATCH as we TAKE BACK OUR KINGDOM.
we will RISE, we will travel for miles,
we will SWIM IN SALT and CRAWL THROUGH FOG
and when the blood mats our fur , and drips form our paws,
only your DEVILS will be worse than US.
your GODS CANNOT SAVE YOU NOW, Â for we have RETURNED
with VENGEANCE and we ARE NOT STOPPING until you have
TASTED what you FED US FOR SO LONG.
OUR BLOOD IS FULL OF IRON.
YOURS CAN BARELY HOLD COPPER.
THE BREATH THROUGH OUR LUNGS IS SOLAR WIND.
YOURS IS THE PANTING OF ONE LOST IN SPACE.
YOU TUMBLE, WE FLY,
WE ARE YOUR ENEMY ONCE KEPT IN CHAINS!!
test your morals, for we have sharpened ours
and you are the only ones not included.
we are ready,
so run.
"Synesthesia is a condition in which one sense (for example, hearing) is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses such as sight. Another form of synesthesia joins objects such as letters, shapes, numbers or people's names with a sensory perception such as smell, color or flavor. The word synesthesia comes from two Greek words, syn(together) and aisthesis (perception). Therefore, synesthesia literally means "joined perception." [x]
[good article]
[ an incredible must see infographic on the subject ]
I have always experienced some form of this, as far back as I can remember. Below I've explained in bold how I relate to various types of synesthesia.
âSpatial sequence synesthesia
Those with spatial sequence synesthesia (SSS) tend to see numerical sequences as points in space. For instance, the number 1 might be farther away and the number 2 might be closer. People with SSS may have superior memories; in one study, they were able to recall past events and memories far better and in far greater detail than those without the condition. They also see months or dates in the space around them. Some people see time like a clock above and around them.â
Iâve always, always perceived numbers, letters, dates, time, and the calendar as visual layouts in my mind. Theyâve always been there, and theyâve always stayed the same. I canât properly explain it, and I couldnât build an exact model on a computer program or anything, but thereâs a definite spatial perception of all these things in my brain.Â
âMisophonia
Misophonia is a neurological disorder in which negative experiences (anger, flight, hatred, disgust) are triggered by specific sounds. Richard Cytowic suggests that misophonia is related to, or perhaps a variety of, synesthesia. Miren Edelstein and her colleagues have compared misophonia to synesthesia in terms of connectivity between different brain regions as well as specific symptoms. They formed the hypothesis that âa pathological distortion of connections between the auditory cortex and limbic structures could cause a form of sound-emotion synesthesiaâ
It doesnât matter how soft a sound is, there are just certain things (and not always specific things, like it can be just a steady thumping, barely audible, but I still will be incredibly angry at the noise, enough to keep me from sleeping [this happened last night]) that instantaneously send a shock of anger/rage/severe annoyance in me. Sometimes Iâll have to leave a room or put headphones on really loud until I canât even hear the faintest whisp of the noise, just to calm down.Â
âGrapheme-color synesthesia
In one of the most common forms of synesthesia, individual letters of the alphabet and numbers (collectively referred to as graphemes) are âshadedâ or âtingedâ with a color. While different individuals usually do not report the same colors for all letters and numbers, studies with large numbers of synesthetes find some commonalities across letters (e.g. A is likely to be red)â
Numbers and letters, as well as words, all have colour, a cool/warm designation, an even/odd designation, a sort of shape (soft, sharp, fluid, round, and some have a quality that makes me think i could cup them easily in my hands), and sometimes gender. even if two words will start w the same letter, they can be different colours, but when i picture the alphabet, letters are always the same colour. same w numbers, except numbers to me are more strongly even/odd and thus cool/warm rather than specific colours. i dont physically see these things, but they are just intrinsic in my perception of letters/numbers/words and automatically form in my mind.
for example, S is even, and has a quality like pressured air hissing through a wide, flat, thin hole. it is blue and nonbinary in its gender. it is a cool letter.Â
'monday' is a warm word, it is full of yellows and oranges, and it is nonbinary and yet has a different way of being so than 'S'. it is on the bottom left of my mind and it isn't 'soft' but is definitely not 'sharp'.Â
2 is an even, cool number, and it is satisfying to me because it is balanced (most numbers with 2 in it are). it is slightly male. it is near the left of my mind, but more up near the middle of my mind's eye than 'monday'.Â
fisher and i made it back to wyoming yesterday after a very very long day of travel. it's amazing how sudden the shift in our energy and spatial connection is to places, despite travel fatigue and stress of arrival into a certain place. i can sense and measure our collective energy and our mutual like, dislike, or neutrality of a place, and upon returning to laramie, fisher was immediately more comfortable and energized, and so it extended into me. we operate on the same wavelength, he and i, both emotional supporters of the other. our moods drastically effect each other's, and i believe we both have become fairly proficient in reading one another's emotions and needs.Â
fisher loves people, he thrives on attention from anyone and everyone, and clearly finds spiritual fuel in the college campus environment with its never-ending stream of people willing to pet and praise. his curiosity and trusting nature assist me in learning how to talk to people, slowly working over the walls that anxiety has built for me. perhaps his greatest strength as an ESA is connecting me with others.Â
it's easy to fall into our usual routine, and it's comfortable for us. our little room is all we need, (although a bigger place would be nice) and it lets us be in close contact whenever i'm in the room. also, we're back to our regular daily walks, something that is disrupted back in ohio and virginia. all in all, as much stress as college causes both of us, we both feel a sense of belonging here, no matter how temporary, and it binds us like few other things do.
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i am out of orbit // it's still not far enough away from you
inside my lupine heart lives a beast so solely drawnÂ
on echoes of the past and a burdened fire dawn
i howl to let the demons out and they dance like bygone flames
smokey ashen icicles freezing once againÂ
they dig beneath my wild nails and make their home and lairÂ
lying at my feet to feed off hows and wheres
they are not like pups in need of milk or even outcast sons
but rather they are a lone wolf, prowling, speaking tongues.Â
i wonder as they crawl back downÂ
my throat so parched and soreÂ
if they hear my cries or are the soundÂ
that flays my vocal chords.
do they know the damage they have caused
or do they laugh inside my soulÂ
as their wicked teeth and bloodied eyes
turn my burning flame to cold?
i felt myself changing, and i searched the speeding desert for the brake.Â
it fell off somewhere in nevada,Â
and i didnât know what to do with this sparking hole in the floor.Â
it was hot, i was sweating through my tank top, one i hadnât worn for a while.
i stood in silence. the wind blew my hair across my face, it was hard to see.Â
hard to see you walking in front of me.
i couldnât tell if you were coming for me or away to the mountains.Â
i suppose in the end i didnât do a good job of repairing the carâÂ
you were too far away by the time i looked up again.Â
we rattled on, the old car and i, beating ourselves for not working better.Â
we were broken and you were walking away under the sun.Â
a vulture, lonely in the dry air, passed lazily ahead.
arresting in the winter sky,
a trifecta of unintentional morse codeâ
orionâs belt glimmers across the miles.
what cosmic closet did he choose it from?
andromedaâs wide variety, a galaxy of options
the pleiadesâ royal cluster of silks and skirtsÂ
the armory of kupier, strong and stocked up fullÂ
perhaps a supuernova, shiny and new and unique.
orion, tell meâÂ
is it a symbol or a signal,
is it power or a promise?
do you wear it to show taurusÂ
that you are unafraid of devils,Â
or does it cross your waist to
light my december night?
my feet slide across the ice,Â
finding balance on my home planet
from which i periodically look up
and find your bright selectionÂ
blinking out answers to questions unasked.
the stars are thousands,Â
bright souls reflected
as you surface under moonlightÂ
and release your warm breath.
it smells of salmon.Â
you glide through the darknessÂ
gentle beside your auntÂ
your cousins click softlyÂ
you swim always together.Â
they are close.Â
as you break the surface,
scattering starlight on the waves,Â
you twist in the salty air
and you do not submerge again.Â
you continue upwards.Â
you hear them, your family,
they click and you feel their voices
as you ascend into brightness
cradled by the wind, guided by the stars.Â
you swim towards peace.Â
in rhapsody you leave this plane,Â
to deeper seas and thicker beds of kelp.Â
you were so exuberant. you were so playful. you were so alive. you were bursting. if ever a being was graced with a fitting name, it was you, dear rhapsody. you were blue, you were lilac, you were a flash of ultraviolet. the waves crashed for you, the kelp floated for you, the salmon ran for you.Â
you were energy, you were light, you were rhapsody, and i will think of you when i see the glinting of middday sun on the lapping waves, and when the sky kisses clouds with a lavender glow.Â
there has never been a time where i didnt want you.
not in the way of birds,
flashing feathers and fleeting encounters.
not in the way of stars,
inevitable dimming and too fierce a life
certainly not in the way of men,Â
kissing mouths and questionable futures.
i wanted, want, will want you in the way of light--
illumination with no off switch,Â
a particle and a wave in the same instant,Â
passing through space like ghosts pass through wallsÂ
and rippling through our vision like a glimpse of the moon through clouds.Â
white dresses and flying rice is not our style,
we are not waiting for a ring,
not even a fancy dinner full of high prices and low voices.
no, that is not us.
we are a different breed, we are greyhounds
slipping through slobbering st. bernards,
we pad softly with breath fogging cold airÂ
while others dig with claws into the ground,Â
panting and racing towards the surf.Â
we feel the cold, we know swimming isn't advisable,Â
so we sit on the dunes and i lay my head on your paws.Â
we are quiet. we hear our hearts. there is no pressure.
we sit, we watch, we feel.Â
we love, but we don't say it.Â
we don't need to.Â
we know-- and that is always, forever, entirely enough.
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im buried so deep under everything im not doing. im ruining my life minute by minute but im trying to pass it off as something else. deep down i know there are reasons, perhaps some are out of my control, but it doesnt numb the pain. fisher is my only constant, the only thing that reminds me of a better life, a purer existence. he puts his paw on my arm as i write this, looking straight into my eyes with an unmoving and wide, innocent gaze. he wonders whats wrong. i want to tell him. i want to thank him for what he does for me. for the comfort, the presence he provides. i give him treats but they last only temporarily on the taste buds. i want to give him something lasting, something understandable to his sense of language, but all i can do is kiss his soft forehead, the spot marked by thin white between his eyes, and stroke his velvet ears, telling him what a good dog he is. i say it with meaning, so that it may be felt and not just heard.Â
i love him, and he loves me, and some days this mutual affection, this presence of someone living alongside me, is the only rope keeping my bridge from falling into the ravine. i might tumble to the river far below if it wasn't for this wagging gift of the universe.
alley life //
alley cats: suave, scarred,
missing a toe or two.
we sit and wait in the shadows,Â
watching for mice,Â
and the stray salty crumbÂ
of a cheap vendorâs pretzel.Â
rain pours off dirty gutters,
ashes from late-night cigarettes and
bits of tar kicked up by speeding taxisÂ
mixing in with the musty waterÂ
too acrid to touch our tongues.Â
a dog barks, straining its leash,Â
we flatten our ears but stand our ground.Â
sirens blareâ is it animal control?
no, just another mugging.Â
thatâs a relief.Â
heels clack on the icy sidewalks
headed to department stores while
children run after their parents,Â
small feet lost in the crowd.Â
feet. a sea of feet.
beyond that, rushing rubber
and too much honking and yellingÂ
for our tasteâ although the old cat
on seventh street says he likes it.
helps him fall asleep.Â
whatever floats your boat, old man.Â
we curl beneath a green dumpster,
rusted and grimy,
next to a cardboard box that
smells faintly like a club sandwich.
extra mayoâ good taste.Â
there is a dead kitten gettingÂ
splashed on the curb across the street.Â
their fur is drenched and matted,Â
the tiny whiskers dripping with muddy water.
the alley is dark, and we can see the stars.Â
Mulder and Enzo, University of Wyoming Police Department's crime dogs. This demonstration was a training session for explosives detection. They are started at 9 months, these dogs are 3 years old now. They are bred for a strong, quality GSD but not necessarily for this job. They are selected for high toy drive since this is most desirable in training for police work. (They used a Kong as a reward here)Â
I wasnât particularly enthused to move to Laramie, Wyoming in the late summer of 2013. I had graduated high school earlier that year and was enrolled in the University of Wyoming as a Zoology student. My very existence was riddled with anxiety and depression; relocating from the lush Midwest to the dry American west was a daunting prospect. Excited as I was to start college, there was a heavy dose of hesitation.
At over 7000 feet above sea level, Laramie sits between two swaths of mountains in an arid, windswept basin. Frigid winters descend every autumn and blast the university town with arctic winds until late spring. The thawing of the ice that seems eternal is cause for celebration here; when shades of grey are suddenly replaced with the greens of the new season it can still be below 50 degrees but residents of Laramie will be walking around with brown and gold t shirts, pride for our school ever-present. As homecoming approaches, businesses of every sort will display signs and decorations warning of âPoke pride on premisesâ, and even the cashiers at our stand-in shopping mall, Wal-Mart, will don their Cowboy gear.Â
This is a town with immense pride and respect for itself and the institution of education that lights up the place with its diversity and excellence. My first year at the University, while desperately difficult from an academic standpoint, was an experience like no other. I could walk to class and hear at least one other language being spoken on the way, I could attend seminars by scientists recognized internationally for their findings, I could casually pass by graduate students from all around the world as they discussed the advanced physics of engineering while I checked my phone for the dining hallâs lunch menu.Â
I would befriend brilliant people with interests as varied as the clouds in Laramieâs vast Wyoming sky; the friends I made were like none I had met before. We would commiserate over chemistry before taking long late-night walks around campus talking about our lives, our futures, our goals and dreams. We would laugh raucously at lunch before meeting in the Union to study feverishly for finals. As my friendships ebbed and flowed with the ever-changing weather, so did my very sense of self.
I had applied to UW intent on studying science, improving my knowledge of the environment and the wildlife I was so passionate about. The professors I met through my time in the Zoology department would become powerful inspirations and dear friends; working with them, learning from them, I was able to explore my interests like never before. However, as time passed, my grades fell, and I looked towards the coming years, I became confused with what I wanted, and fell into a deep depression.
I took daily walks around campus and around town, getting to know the layout of my new home by foot. I watched birds in the park, strolled around the beautiful campus, visited downtown to shop, and began feeling more at home than I had in the early weeks of school. My favourite place to go was Laprele Park, almost a mile from campus, where the small lake hosted kingfishers and mallards and the dry grass attracted the large flocks of crows that roosted around town. A panoramic view of the mountain ranges that bookend the town, as well as the gigantic sky that lights up brilliant blue in the day and soft salmon in the evening was present at Laprele. The local string of pronghorn frequented the rolling hills at the east end of the park, and I enjoyed watching their slick summer hair turn to a bright, plush coat of winter insulation. The birds, the pronghorn, they became my silent companions as I walked through rain, sun, and snow, drowning my sorrows in the windy solitude.
In this silence, under the sky streaked with high-flying ravens and the magnificent Swainsonâs hawks, I wrote love letters to lost lovers, cried while cold rain drenched my clothes, and stood facing the distant hills, wondering if I would ever find the strength to summit the mountains of my inner demons. I released my soul to the Laramie sky there, a hundred times over, and the pronghorn scraped at grasses fed by my joys and dried by my troubles. Â
It was during this time that the town gave me the greatest gift of all, one that would transform my life like never before. One evening I was sitting in my recliner in my lonely dorm roomâI didnât have a roommate, my own preferenceâand found the website of the Laramie animal shelter. It seemed foolish to peruse the faces of the adoptable dogs and cats without the ability to take one home, but as I laid my eyes on the image of a large, black and white dog called Fisher, my soul was sparked with something fierce. I rushed the mile on foot to the shelter as soon as it was open the next day, and asked to see him. The shelter worker brought him out to the play yard where I was waiting, and I could feel the ground shift. Thus began the crusade to secure this gentle, nervous dog as my own.
 Through the late-winter/early-spring snow, rain, and sun, while managing my schoolwork and social life, I walked daily, sometimes twice a day, to the shelter to visit Fisher. I spent hours and hours with him indoors and out, gaining his trust and learning from him. He was a shy, anxious soul and I found much of myself in his nervous ways. He needed time and space, and that I gave him. It wasnât long before he curled up beside me, paw resting across my folded legs, and fell asleep contentedly. The shelter staff found this endearing as well as incredible; they frequently reminded me of how special it was for this nervous dog to trust me as deeply as he did. Iâm not one to believe in fate, butâand the shelter staff and my friends agreedâour bond was inscribed in the heart of some star, waiting for our story to unfold. Â
Upon learning that my mental illnesses qualified me for an emotional support animal, one that would be accepted to live in the residence halls, I began to call, write, email, and visit anyone and everyone involved in the process of approving Fisherâs adoption and allowance into my dorm. It was a long, arduous couple of weeks, one fraught with uncertainty and the most intense desperation. Even before he was officially approved, before I signed the adoption paperwork, Fisher was inspiring me to overcome challenges in my life. With him by my side, I grew more confident, more outgoing, and my growth paralleled his. After I brought him home, he blossomed along with me into a new and brighter being. Together we walked under the late-morning shadows of the row of trees on Ivinson, maneuvered the busy weekday traffic of students rushing to class, and spent countless hours sitting on Prexyâs Pasture to the comforting din of university life. I introduced him to my place of pilgrimage: Laprele Park. The evening sun lit up the reflective strips on his support dog vest as he trotted alongside me, the long fur on his tail windswept by the breezes hinting at coming storms.
Laramie, this town nestled in the lower right corner of the vast Wyoming rectangle, has seen me through hard times and offered clear sunlight on my better days. I have come to claim this place, with all its quirks, kindhearted people, and brilliance, as a home; itâs not a secondary home-away-from-home, nor is it my sole space of residence, but it is part of me, and I am part of it. Looking back on Laramieâs past, sometimes bright and sometimes tumultuous, I feel blessed to experience it in its current state, as a place full of intelligence and diversity and dazzling sunsets. I love this town and everything it has come to represent for me, from its cupped hands that catch my emotions as they pour out and nearly freeze in the winter air to the gentle comfort it brings when I step outside with Fisher and have a cool breeze freshen our faces, ridding us of stressors that bound us indoors. Laramie is beautiful, and as I look at my hands weathered by its wavering seasons, I see that my scars now glimmer with a new aura. I look at the wide-open sky and, just for an instant, see myself reflected off the iridescent feathers of a crow headed towards the west, carrying a spark of me on the whistling Wyoming wind.
when we were young,Â
girl power was only on stickers
pasted in neon colours to our elementary notebooksÂ
surrounded by flowers and sparkling stars
next to doodles of hearts that we pierced with arrows.
we were taught by women,Â
soft voices reciting alphabets and numbers,Â
telling of the history in which men shouted, women whisperedâ
Girls Can Be Presidents Too! but where were they?
we rode the bus home to our mothers,Â
who cooked us pasta and made us eat our broccoli.
we waited for our fathers to return,
while watching cartoons with Barbie.
we were tucked into our beds draped in pink,Â
the nightlights turned on,
the plastic glow stars faintly green on our ceilings,Â
we closed our eyes to dream. Â
we wake up now, in a new world,
were girl power is no longer a sticker, but a call to arms.Â
we are shedding the passivity of our girlhood,Â
rallying in solidarity to yell for all the times we sat silent,
taught to search for a dream house instead of a degree.Â
girl power was what we dreamed of in the glow of our nightlights.Â
girl power is what we embody in the spotlight of the century.Â
we had it all along,Â
but dreamed instead of doing.
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do u ever go to write like a 2 paragraph drabble and then suddenly, an entire freakin fanfic arises
thats what happened this morning. dont get me started on college mulder/scully, im all over thatÂ
Dana was surprised by this sudden appearance, given the otherwise quiet hallway. She wondered where he was headed to. As the boy turned the corner, she saw him crash to the floorâheâd stepped on his shoelace.Â
She ran around the corner, expecting to see him surrounded by papers and open folders, but to her astonishment the hallway was clear. She looked up, confusedâand spotted a door at the end of the dimly-lit hallway just as it shut. Perhaps he had gone into that room?
She walked slowly down the hallway, slightly uneasy in the flickering yellow light. As she reached the door she cautiously peered through the window, not knowing what to expect.
The boy was indeed in there, and so were a number of other studentsâmost with glasses, messy hair, and plenty of books of their own. The boy from the hallway was at the front of the room, hanging up charts alongside a large map. Another student was fiddling with the slide projector, centering a photograph of a treeline on the glass.
It seemed to be a meeting of sorts, but for what purpose? Dana knew of various science clubs on campus, but none like this. Secluded in a dark side-hallway of the union, at a late hour, full of strange looking students⌠what on earth was this?
As she was racking her brain to put all the pieces together, the boy from the hallway, finished with hanging up the charts, moved to the projected image and began excitedly pointing at what looked to be a dark smudge above one of the trees. In the light from the projector, Dana saw his face clearly for the first timeâ his eyes were bright, framed by oversized glasses that rested on a large nose. His brown hair was unkempt (although, Dana noticed, in an endearing sort of way). He was wearing a button-up formal shirt with an untied tie, and, Dana noticed, his shoe was still untied. She smiled to herself at this.
As she watched him enthusiastically pace in front of the room, gesturing wildly to the photo on the projector, she realized that the image wasnât just of treesâthe dark smudge he was focusing on was an object of some kind. She leaned against the door, trying to hear what he was saying.
âLook, this photo was taken just six years ago, and itâs been run through all sorts of computer tests. Itâs real, guys, itâs genuine!! This has got to be the clearest photo yet, the government wonât be able to hide anything much longer!â
Dana furrowed her browâwhat on earth was he talking about? Suddenly she didnât think this was a science club anymore.
Normally, she wouldâve turned and left at this point, but there was something about the boyâs excitement that made her stick around. She watched the meeting in its entirety, as various other bespectacled boys, and a few girls, took their turns presenting information to the group. Occasionally they referred to the maps and charts, sometimes they changed the image on the projector. It was curious business, and Dana wanted to know moreâbut when the meeting was over and everyone began packing up to leave, she quickly hurried to an unlit spot further down the hallway, not wanting to be seen.
 The door opened and the students began filing out, still muttering eagerly to one another while stuffing papers into overflowing folders. She waited for the boy from the hallway to walk through the door, but even after all the rest of the group had left, he hadnât appeared.
Slowly, she emerged from her shadowy hiding spot and approached the half-open door. She slowly opened it and there he was, bent over some slides, thoughtfully chewing on a pen cap. Dana stood in the doorway, watching him. After a while he began taking down the charts and map, rolling them up and putting them in his bag. He jotted a note on one of the slides before sticking it carefully into a folder and slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave. As he looked up, he saw Dana for the first time.
âIâm sorry, I shouldnât be here, IââÂ
âHey hey hey, itâs okay!â the boy asked as he walked towards her. He was smiling, and Dana couldnât help but notice how his already bright eyes glowed even more.Â
âAre you interested in joining our ~little menagerie~? Every Tuesday night at 7!â he said, gesturing to the room as he asked.
Dana let out a huff of air through her nose in amusement and smiled, looking away. âNo, no, I was just walking pastâŚalthough what is that you do in here, exactly?â she looked up at him. He looked at her in silence for a while, trying to judge what her reaction would be to his answer. He leaned closer and said quietly, âUFOs.â
She raised an eyebrow and, with a laugh, said âUFOs...? Unidentified flying objects. As in ships from outer space?â She couldnât believe it.Â
The boy didnât look surprised at her disbelief, but she saw his eyes flicker with disappointment. He scratched the back of his neck and said, âWell, yeah! I mean the government is trying to cover it all up, of course, and weâre seeing past their lies; weâre trying to uncover the truth and show people whatâs really going on. Weâre getting so close!â he said, knowing how ridiculous she thought it sounded, but determined to impress her.Â
Dana narrowed her eyes and shook her head slightly, although not taking her eyes off of his. She obviously thought he was strange, but there was something in his passion for the subject that made him interesting, despite his wild claims.
The boy was silent for a moment, then reached out and, to her surprise, touched Danaâs shoulder. âThe truth is out there. Itâs waiting to be discovered, and Iâm determined to find it.â
He patted her shoulder while smiling at her before walking gently past her and out into the hallway. She turned around and watched him leave, his tall, thin figure disappearing steadily down the hall. She took a couple steps forward, stuck between letting him go and wanting to ask him more questions; as she did so, she noticed a slide on the tiled floor. She reached down and picked it up; she held it against the dim light. It was the image of the treeline with the objectâthe UFOâin the sky. Near the bottom was a note in fresh ink.
I want to believe.
Dana smiled to herself and put the slide in her bag, tucked carefully inside a textbook. She knew where she would be next Tuesday night.
the demon that steals the light: an essay on the experience of depression
Depression is a most insufferable of afflictions, the most disastrous of maladies. It is the manifestation of the burning core of human suffering present our species, bringing to the surface the inevitable doom that a human existence breeds. It is depressionâs bastardization of this often suppressed uncertainty into an imperial agony that makes it so potent. Truly a wolf in the wooliest of sheepâs clothing, the disease is a bitter friend, an abusive lover, a rainbow made only of shades of grey. It is an ever present comfort even as it tears at the skin, caressing the soul with needles and knives. In depression, one comes to seek this terrible companionship, almost as one would yearn for the tender warmth of a more traditional partner. Depression in all its violence creates such a storm in oneâs mind that only the evil that wrought such chaos can be a suitable confidant. It makes one feel so tremendously isolated, so desperately worthless, that one feels undeserving of anyone less cruel than depression herself.
Depression transforms oxygen into mud, thickening the air and making difficult the acts of breathing and moving. If one with depression is lucky enough to get out of their house, the outside world seems incredibly too bright. Everyone looks far too happy, or at least not sad enough. Time slows down while everyone else seems to be moving at lightning pace; a minute for the nondepressed seems an hour for the depressed. As time ticks by ever so slowly, one drags their body around like a heavy burden, weighed down by the growing enormity of their grief.
Depression is a disease of the mind; it builds high walls around it and one has no choice but to sit in squalor at the mercy of the hurricane of emptiness inside their head. Â It cuts a hole in the heart and soul, and one can only watch sorrowfully, helplessly, as everything but the sadness washes down, down, and into some dark ocean far off and out of sight. Depression empties one completely until the only thing left to cling toâhowever much it hurts to do soâis the depression itself.
 âi feel unspeakably lonely. and i feel - drained. it is a blank state of mind and soul i cannot describe to you as i think it would not make any difference. also it is a very private feeling i have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. i am often questioning myself what i further want to do, who i further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. no answers, darling. at all.â -Anne Sexton
 One feels sorrowful for the loss of this sadness when, once in a blue moon, a day comes where the brightness is not as blinding, the emptiness is not as cavernous, the air is not as mired. Addicted to the comfortable nullity, the familiar ache, one becomes quickly anxious for its return when on those rare occasions it fades for a while. Depression, in this way, is so subtly dangerous, attaching comfort to coldness and a sense of home to desolation. It builds a home for itself even as it tears its host apart.
âDepression was something that was braided so deep into us that there was no separating it from our character and personality.â âAndrew SolomonÂ
Depression becomes an identity. It indeed is so closely entwined with the mind, heart, and soul that there is no way to dislodge it without ripping apart the very essence of oneself.  Thus, it is difficult and nearly impossible to imagine life without depression, to be without depression. The before, the after, they might as well not exist; they are ghosts of a present full of demons. Haunted day and night by a silent assassin, life with depression is not life at all, but a conscious version of death. Dulled are ones senses, drained is ones capacity to feel anything beyond utter despair, and debilitated are ones movements. Stripped away are ones passions, darkened are ones thoughts, and vanished are all hopes. The greyscale world seen through the lens of depression is one where the prospect of happiness, or even neutrality, not only goes to perish, but to be subjected to torment for which it seems there will be no end.Â
 There is no singular experience of depression, and yet it is never gentle. It is never kind. It never allows those in its grasp to see their worth, to believe in their strength, to ponder a possible end to its torture. And yet, despite the suffocating hold that it has on its sufferers, there are so many who have fought this terrible disease, who have found meaning in their suffering. It is not an unconquerable affliction, but it is not easily overpowered. And, once one has seemingly vanquished this dark devil, there is always the threat of its return. Without warning, it can steal you away once again, perhaps even more violent than before. But-- and this is the greatest weakness of depression-- there is always light, and those who have been devoid of it for long enough will be the best at seeking it out.Â
Depression can seem like an endless road, but it must be remembered that all devils were once angels, all sinners once untainted-- that there is light even in the most hellish of places.