through the looking glass

Who knows, maybe one day I'll come back with a better writing style or something.

: :

"if you want to learn what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph." 

: :

i. the banged up piano that your grandmother gave you with keys so worn that no magic can coax it to sing one last time. it is a family heirloom but it is dying, and it lets out one last shallow, dying breath, and your body is shaking as you place your hands on the keys that she touched so long ago.

ii. the baseball cap that has never been washed ever since the seventh grade year your father passed. i see you with it sometimes, always when you're alone in your room. staring at the fading red cap with a look of detachment and longing in your eyes, and your rough, calloused hands holding it, gently gently gently, as if afraid the threads will start to unravel if you weren't careful, and you would lose your father and the boy who learned how to throw a football properly so many years ago.

iii. racks of old bikes in your next door neighbor's garage, and you told me how you wanted to travel on a bike, and when i told you you were crazy, you told me that your dreams are big but they are not impossible. i thought you just had a love for cycling and mountain bikes.

i noticed when you placed your hands on the leather seat and looked as if freedom was a finger breadth's away, but still so so far.

iv. a leather bound book that i recognized as your first bible when you were still a sophomore in high school. pages after pages of color and underlines and doodles and notes about the Man that saved you from no one but yourself. crinkled pages and fingerprints that tell of the frequent visit of this Book and the years that it has stayed with you, and how its words have been etched on your heart.

v. me with paint streaks in my hair and smudges of blue paint on my cheeks. me, squinting, half-smiling, half-scowling when you snap that picture of my sweaty, tired self. me, and no one else.

: :

the apartment was quiet when i came in past 3 a.m and i knew it would be,

but the orderliness of it all surprised me.

your paint smudged frock hung on the coat rack, clean and fresh,

the living room pillows leaning snugly on the couch,

any evidence of a mid-afternoon movie marathon erased, and a smell of

artificial roses was left in its place.

(it was too much like the one mom always used.)

an artist likes messes, and i knew, for the life of you, you couldn’t and wouldn’t

be bothered to clean up unless absolutely necessary,

and otherwise, you only cleaned up if i pestered you too often

or (and i hate hate to think this, but reality is reality no matter how painful),

the demons you managed to subdue are now awake and writhing inside of you

and they’re too much to take.

like so many times before, focusing on something else was the only thing that kept you

from feeling like you were being ripped limb from limb,

so why should this time be any different?

i found you in your room, a shade of the person i saw this afternoon.

you hardly looked up when i entered, just sat staring at the notebook in front of you,             

one among countless of other ones you owned.

your expression is weary, your shoulders tight and tense, as if you are getting

ready to flee and you are just waiting for the right moment,

your eyes betray any sort of indifferent response i know you will give me in the morning.

“sometimes i just slip into lapses, you know. an artist thing.” “helen, get

off my case. you’re not mom.” and the one he always gives,

“i’m not your baby brother anymore. i grew up. can you accept that?”

and i want to grab him and say, “yes, yes, yes, but you have to let

me help. can you accept that you can’t always get through things

alone?

let me in.”

i say your name, and you look at me, expression blank, and reply in a hollow voice

not even bothering to hide the bitterness coating your words, or the dejection so evident in your tone.

i make you stand up with me, and in your current state, you don’t protest.

i then take the box that held so much of your past; its contents spilling onto your bed,

and lead you outside of our little apartment, and trudge up several flights of stairs

until we’re breathing hard, and the glaze in your eyes are starting to clear up.

the night air rushes to meet us as as we step out onto the roof; eager like a long lost friend.

its embrace almost knocks you off your feet, and i watch as a small gasp escapes your

lips, and your expression changes, allowing the you i know to resurface for a while.

the numb emptiness in your eyes are gone, and you are staring at the distant city lights

with childlike wonder, as if you have never seen anything so bright, and so grand

in contrast to your dusty soul.

  i drop the box onto the ground and flick the lighter over and over,

unsatisfied with the flame that appears, and i turn to you and hold the lighter out.

“this is the barest hint of hope,” i say, and lean down to light the box.

the burning is a slow process, but the flames lick the cardboard repeatedly until they shrivel

under its tongue

and the fire spreads and crackles and burns fiercer until the box is a heap of ashes

and the contents are no longer recognizable.

it melts the spray can of artificial roses that mom used (another pretty cover up from the real mess),

the stained baseball cap from your eighth birthday,

the love letters from your ex,

your high school chemistry notes,

your contact lens,

letters that were never concluded,

and the Michael of the past,

until all that is left are the charred remains of what you once had to wake up to everyday and call

life.

the past is now a pile of cinders and ashes that we will scatter to the wind.

but her eyes are saying, please save me from myself

your outline by Annon Chang

I watch the world without you from behind a set of windows as the heat of the day fades, and the moon struggles to pull itself into place. On the outskirts of the city, the lights are not quite as bright as they were when we walked hand in hand outside the Forever 21 shop where you implied that you loved me for the first time. Perhaps most people would think it would seem more romantic, or more sincere if you had actually said, “I love you” in a quiet place, where all I can focus on is you, you, you. But they are wrong, because there is some sort of magic in the way you looked at me; filled with adoration and hope. You said, “There is more joy to come in between the ugliness of life, and I hope we’ll still be standing then, because what we have isn’t something you give up easily.” I kissed you then, and even now I can still feel your arms, solid, around my waist, and your lips, soft and warm as you kiss me back. I am loved, I am safe, and I am treasured.

It is on that night that we end up watching the world together behind a set of windows at the apartment building where we stayed.

I am walking down a narrow road, shoulder-to-shoulder with my friend, hands raised to shield the blinding sun from our eyes. My backpack is nestled safely on my shoulders, and the way we talk, the way we are walking alone, stepping further and further away from anyone we know, makes me feel like I'm stepping away from responsibility and leaving my old life behind. For a minute there, as we discuss the hidden sides about someone and what to do in case someone pushes us into a car, I feel like I'm seeing things anew, like the house that I pass by everyday, and the construction that has been going on for months is something different than what I always thought I saw. I feel as if I'm shedding my old self and perspective, and taking on a new, different, fresh view of the world.

For a minute there, I am sure that things are somehow different. That I am walking into another life that promises discovery and excitement and freedom.

that any boy would be lucky to have me and that I am a wonder

and a mystery to be looked upon; a miracle to marvel at

and puzzle to treasure and to figure out. they would be so lucky

to have you, you say. they don't deserve someone as great as you.

you act as if there is nothing that i can do that can go

horribly and terribly wrong, and that all my blemishes are

blurred and tucked away safely and not even there to begin

with, because i am me and you want me to believe

that i can do anything and get away with it.

when your eyes fall on me, burning with respect and

admiration, instead of straightening my posture and diving

headfirst into anything to prove you right, i feel terribly unworthy

of your gaze, because darling, i am me. i am human and i am

a mess; a bundle of insecurities and doubts, and sins and

lies and lust, and i will never be worthy of the look you give me

and i feel nothing but guilt and if onlys because if only you knew

i think about how there is really nothing keeping me here anymore. a small dirty city, where a plastic bag flows by whenever i walk down the streets. smoke smoke smoke everywhere i go. people who are nothing like me, who have done me no good even after all those years. a best friend far away and a best friend almost never within reach. a family struggling.

nothing.

(and it's selfish, but i've had it up to my neck with caring)

I do not own this photo, but I could not find a source for this image.

Coming home was hard.

It had always been hard, but it wasn't something she was willing to admit or acknowledge all those years. It had simply been coming home; coming back to a house that was too large and too empty; having a couple of drinks with her brother who popped in to check on her occasionally, and then poof! he was gone again to God knows where. It was forced smiles at dinner tables, strained silences during a car ride, and endless countdowns until the day she could get up and leave again.

Home. Wasn't home supposed to be the place where you could be the most yourself, where people could judge you and instead of tears and rage, you just throw up your middle finger in the air and say screw you?

 She pressed closer to the window, her forehead touching the cool glass, where frost had settled over it. Raindrops skittered down the window, but the worst of the storm was over, and all she could hear was the steady thrum of rain, and soft murmurs from strangers. She was so tempted to sleep through it, to wake up and find out that she missed her stop, and she was on her way out of the state, and maybe then she'd have a valid excuse for not coming home, for delaying the visit.

The cramped little room she'd left behind for three weeks wasn't big enough for a college student, and numerous times she had let out a string of profanities when she stubbed her toe while trying to maneuver out of the room with an easel. She'd lost count of how many times she told her friends that when she had the money, she would get up and move out into a grand loft; one with more space than this one provided. She lost count of how many times she felt so sure another place, a bigger, luxurious place could meet her needs.

But now as she thought it over, it was all shit.

The room that was waiting for her in her parents' house was as impressive as one would like, but it was empty and cold, and there was no sign of attachment or anyone even living in there. It was unfamiliar and abandoned and it wasn't lived in and she could find no warmth beneath its covers no matter how hard she tried.

(And oh how hard she did, for those past years.)

The bus rattled past the Welcome! sign and into the city, and all she could think was that it was going to be another dull, cheerless holiday, and maybe she should try to fix things up between her and her parents and her family and her life in general, and maybe if she tried hard enough it would really feel like she was coming home again.

"This way," he said, gesturing grandly to the old set of double doors that looked out of place and much too large for the small house we were in. "It's like, our family treasury or something. These things are priceless, because some of them have been preserved since the Holy Roman Empire. We also have pictures of Oliver Cromwell's beard. And we're not crazy," he added.

"Riley, Oliver Cromwell came to power in the late 1500s and photography began in the 1700s," I pointed out. "I hate to say it, but your family is nuts."

He shrugged nonchalantly, one hand already on the handle of the door. The whole Jackson family was a little bit odd, a whole lot eccentric, and they were equally proud of their heritage. That was initially how his sister and I became friends. "History's not my thing. And maybe it's not Oliver Cromwell, but it's equally interesting." He turned to look at me impatiently, bouncing lightly in his steps. "Hurry up! Don't you want to see it?"

I rolled my eyes. For a 16 year old boy, Riley sure wasn't meeting the 'average' standards. His tall, lanky form and easy manner wasn't something most people would associate with his love for relics, mild obsession with bird-watching, and almost a shy hesitance to interact with the opposite sex his age. He seemed so fresh and young and innocent, and it vaguely reminded me of how we all used to be. Sometimes, I wonder what he hid under all of that, and how he still managed to maintain his eagerness to help out and live.

I made my way towards him, exaggerating my steps and pretended to be interested in the yellowing wallpaper, and the cracks that appeared underneath a black and white picture frame. Finally, I arrived next to him, and I put a hand over my heart, gasping. "Wow, that was some hard work."

It was his turn to roll his eyes and snort. "When you act dumber and younger than I am, it's priceless."

"Shut up and open the door," I told him, composing myself for whatever I was about to see.

Riley's expression changed to one of excitement, and he gained an air of business and superiority. "Right, right. Okay, yeah." He nodded and then turned to face me, his back to the door, spreading his arms out grandly, until his fingertips almost brushed the wall. "This," he began with flourish, "is a family treasury - like a scrapbook almost, things left to remember people by. It's a storage room, almost like a blast from the past, that thing you do - what do you call it? Time castle or something."

"Capsule," I corrected.

"Right. So when you step inside this room, it's like stepping inside a museum of sorts. And not to brag," he added, "but we have super cool stuff."

I grinned at this, amused by his speech and how his normally extended vocabulary was shortened by his excitement. "Okay, so let's see it."

Riley performed an elaborate bow and then stepped off to the side, his index finger hooking onto the handle, and he tugged the door open. He waved me in, and curiously and cautiously, I stepped inside the room. Distantly, I could hear him mutter about how much he was going to screw up his graduation speech.

I could see why Riley got so worked up about this family museum thing; it was seemingly the most important room in the whole house. What was originally a small room was added to, going out farther into the yard. Where the brick ended, someone had destroyed the back wall and extended the room, but with planks of wood instead, so it looked like you were stepping into different houses that were joined together. There were antique tables standing at random all over the place, where objects were being displayed. I caught sight of things like a phonograph, a stuffed dog (taxidermy always kind of fascinated me in a creepy way), weapons, hunting horns, and photographs - so many of them. Polaroids of black and white, and early developed color, and to this day and age, hung around the room like trophies.

I passed by most of the objects easily. It wasn't as because the objects weren't interesting; they were, but I had my eye set on the Polaroids. Sure enough, I came to a stop in front of the window, where they were tacked to it, some overlapping one another. There was no order, it was just old and new photographs of different shapes and sizes, and different eras stuck together, like a random assortment of memories. I was guessing that was their photo album. 

My eyes scanned the pictures. There was a big black and white photo of a huge family - theirs, obviously - in front of a farmhouse. There was a picture of a couple holding hands, running along a fence, the sun's rays beaming cheerfully down on them, and making everything seem surreal. There were other less "professional pictures", like a picture of Riley grinning with something stuck in his teeth next to a greasy looking burger, a picture of Meg squinting and flaring her nostrils at the same time, and one of a group of them in middle school with bad hair and braces.

And then among them, there was an old, almost torn up photograph of someone standing on a cliff, back turned, staring out at the mountains beyond them, and down at the forest that spread out below. I studied it, feeling something tug at my heartstrings by the way he held himself and how small he looked, looking almost lost, but knowing that he could be found in such a lovely, lonely place. 

I turned away a little, only to see another picture of a set of wooden stairs leading down to the sand and the crashing waves. It looked so peaceful, somehow. For a moment there, I wish I was on that beach, feeling the sand curl between my toes and stepping into the tide as the water folded around me and pulled me in deeper, so that somehow, by being away from the familiarity of the shore and my previous life, I can somehow manage to find who I am in the strange and unfamiliar depths. 

"You like those?"

I almost jumped, heart pounding, as I spun around to catch Riley gazing curiously at me. I'd almost forgotten he was there, or where I was for a moment. Nodding, I turned back, gesturing lamely at the photos. "Yeah, they're really..nice."

"My uncle took them." He stepped closer, glancing at other pictures. "He always liked to make the person long for the place he captured in his photographs. Like this, see?" Riley pointed at another picture, this one of a city - London - smack dab in the middle, where a fountain was spurting out water as dusk settled in, people pushing past, and streetlights blinking on. I could see the Big Ben lighting up in the distance, and the picture almost seemed like it had a life of its own. 

"Yeah. I see. It's almost as if you want to jump in a plane and fly away," I said. "It's...I don't know. It just makes you rethink your life, and now you know it's pretty boring."

"Boring? Your life?"

"Yes," I said immediately, and so firmly, I surprised myself. "I mean...my life is kind of a routine, and I feel so...confined in this small town and in my family where my parents don't even talk to each other, and then my only escape is you guys, and your family, where it makes me feel alive, but that's not even often. And I mean," I continued, realizing that I was going on a tangent and for once not caring what I said, "now that I look at these pictures, I feel like there's something that's calling me, like there's another life that's beckoning me forward to leave and to travel, and to find myself in that chaos, because it would help me look at things more differently, you know? It would help me discover things I wouldn't before."

Riley was quiet, his eyes watching me, an eyebrow raised slightly, as if surprised and almost impressed at how much I'd revealed, and how much I'd felt just from these few pictures that his uncle took, probably not even seriously. Maybe it had just been the right timing, at the right place, with the right amount of light to produce the desired longing effect, but it had impacted me, and his work hadn't gone to waste. And that was all I knew.

And it wasn't because the feeling for elsewhere, the feeling to get away because you know you didn't belong here was new to me. It wasn't, I just wasn't able to really pinpoint it until now. 

And I didn't know it then, but this feeling would grow and grow and grow, until one day, I would get up and leave. Quietly, without any fussing, but I would finally fulfill those long ago desires, and find myself along the way.

But for now, it was just a feeling, one that ached so deeply, my chest started to hurt.

"Okay," I said, breaking the silence after a while. "So I saw the stuffed dog. That a work of your uncle too?"

or when it actually beings to stir in the pits

of your stomach and eventually overtakes your body

and your previous thoughts. It makes you numb with

emotions, but somehow you know precisely

what you were doing before it happened.

Time is slow; so slow, that you swear you can feel

the plates of the earth shifting, and hear the blood rushing

through your veins, and you're sure you've memorized every

chip and crook and cranny on the "antique" table you're

sitting at. You stare out the window, and the lazy

evening sunlight beams down on you, and you can

feel the rays growing weaker, and you suddenly realize that

the way the city lights begin to blink on, one by one, are like an

animal's eyes in the dusk, and the bustle of the city is quieter

than you would've wanted it to be, and suddenly you don't

quite know how to feel.

You know that you feel, quite suddenly, that this

apartment room is suddenly smaller than before, and the walls

are seemingly pressing in on you. Suddenly, you long

to be away from this small town, with the all too familiar faces

and the same bakery shop that has been there for

longer than your mom has been alive, and the supermarket that

everyone seems to go to, because there's nowhere

else to go - and you want to be on the other side of the world,

walking the streets that have been worn down with the feet

of millions of pedestrians that have scurried past

everyday. You want to be where the city never sleeps,

in a sea of anonymity, falling in love with the glorious sights

and the wafting smells from a Mexican restaurant.

You long for a place you've never been to, a place

where you've only seen on a few postcards, and in your

own imagination. It is a kind of longing that strangely keeps

you going, that motivates you to finish school and continue

with your fine-just-fine life, until you will finally be able to

The Earth Grew Cold (by gurbir.grewal)

I do not own the picture.

Take my hand, my dear, and we will wade into the icy depths of the unknown, where the sea will spread out before us, glimmering and alluring with the promise of deliverance, and the threat of destruction. Your hand in the crook of my arm, side by side, wading deeper as the water laps at the back of our knees, and tiny chutes of grass tickles our toes. I can feel your presence beside me as the water rises, and I can feel your panic as you struggle to stay put, and even if you are starting to doubt me, and begin to wonder where I am, hold on just a little bit longer. I am there. 

Love stories are everywhere; from the etchings of initials

and a heart on the base of the giant redwood tree

to flashing strobe lights in a packed room

with strangers and the thick, hazy atmosphere --

or a rainy day stuck in a telephone booth, or two friends sitting

down for a cup of coffee with blankets draped over

their shaking shoulders.

But the ultimate love story is about

man who died for His bride centuries ago on a cross

with love still in His heart, while she spat and cursed

and sneered at a foolish man such as Him;

to love even despite the cost of death,

because this deep, sacrificial love beyond all measure

was unheard of.

And that, I think, is where the basis of

true love comes from - this man who lived like

no other. A man who walked and talked and

loved like there was no tomorrow, and obeyed like a

lamb led to slaughter, but unlike this lamb, the man

knew of what was in store for Him and yet he still walked

straight on with His heart abandoned, all for His beloved

bride whom He hopes that one day, she will turn back to

Him.

Sometimes I think about my own love story that is

waiting and waiting and waiting to be put into action

and about the man who will claim my heart one day,

the man I will come to love and will be closer to me

than I to myself.

And I think of our first meeting, and the feelings that will

soon follow them -- panic, excitement, and a yawning hole in

my stomach that will plunge deeper and deeper when his lips

quirk up into a shy smile

and how our knees will graze against each other's

when we sit on the porch overgrown with moss and overtaken

with weeds, our breaths like clouds in the early morning

air, the coffee warming our hands, and the sun warming our

bodies.

And I cannot help but think of how his eyes would

light up with affection and almost guilt when he sees me

because maybe we shouldn't feel this way about

each other, but we do and there's no stopping it.

Maybe one day, we will be bound to each other

forever; not by words and a certificate and eyewitnesses

but a silent commitment and pledge in our hearts

that we are bound for more than a lifetime.

That is also when I remember that love is not just

a man and a woman who are wedded, nor is it stolen

kisses and the fumbling of clothes in a dark room, with only the

weak moonlight to illuminate the pale skin of the

desperate lovers and the mouths that will kiss all that

it will find.

Love can be the gentle breeze when the unforgiving sun

releases its rage upon you, or the act of giving to a stranger

on the side of the road -- one you do not know anything about

but their awed silence and thanks that cannot be

expressed through simple words are more than enough

for you.

Love can be expressed through a cup of earl gray tea after

stressful Thursday lectures, and the smell of butter that 

still lingers on the table even after that night many

years ago. It can be the the sincerity of a person's joy, the

gentle butt of your dog's head against your knee, or the drawing that

your five year old niece gave you of crayons and pastels that you still

strangely keep, even after she has grown up.

It is patient and a kind thing, love is. An unselfish act and an

unselfish heart, and actions that do not have to be but

have been done for the sake of it. A self-sacrificing lifestyle for

someone and maybe even

everyone.

Love, my dear readers, is shown through a person that

will accept you despite all of your wet pillows

and sour mornings and quick tongue and the ugly rage,

and it will continue to be there when your heart is

failing and the only thing you feel at the moment is unlovable

but still loves you despite that,

when you need it the most.

And I know no greater love than my Savior and I do

hope, dear reader, that one day you shall find

a love such as that; a love

If I could write a song for you, I would tell you of quiet truths and a soaring love. I would tell you of a world filled with magic and wonders, where the night sky looked like God spilled a jar of glitter and sequins across His unfinished canvas, and where human bodies healed itself in time. I would tell you of a rushing wind on top of the highest mountain, wrapping and folding itself around you until it eventually lifts you off your feet and carries you far away, to a place where you will live forever.

When there is too much to behold, I will remind you that somewhere behind those towering, formidable gray mountains, there lies a rich green valley bustling with life, just waiting for you to discover amidst your desperation and hopelessness.

But I will not leave out the truth of this world. I will weave a melody so fragile and tender that it touches on the brokeness and suffering of those who conceal it completely. A plastic smile, robotic motions, and a false script written in order to ward off polite, but weak attempts to pry. 

I would tell of evil cloaked in a light so blinding that it fooled even the most faithful person, and one so broken but filled with the wildest, unquenchable joy. I would tell you that there was a man 2,000 years ago whose hands bled for us, and whose wounds speak of immeasurable grace. I would tell you of a life beyond this temporary one, where we will fall before the feet of the One so glorious, we will forever be singing His praises.

I would tell you that beneath the weeds of hatred that are fighting so hard to choke any other signs of life, there is a single daisy that grows amid the chaos; simple, pure, and lovely.

I would tell of all of this if I could, and make you realize the black and white of this world. I would make up a story to help you understand, but I need not go that far, for that world is the one we are living in right now.

There is so much that you and I do not know. You may think, sometimes, that you really know someone, that you know what they are truly, what they are really about. But do you really? We are often so confident and so rash in making assumptions and judgements about people. We often think that what the surface provides is more than enough to assume a certain point about someone. It's sad, really, how we forget that there are so many layers and sides to a person, and let a certain, petty moment cloud our judgement about them.

Deep down inside, we are all the same.

Human beings are such beautiful, broken creatures. They strive constantly to cover up who they really are and put on a show that they think will impress others. They bury the sides of themselves that they think no one will be able to accept. Maybe you've never thought or never knew that the party girl actually likes to sit down and think about what's real, about what matters, sometimes. Maybe you've never thought that the grumpy, whiny old woman next door is actually yearning for someone, because you're so bent on avoiding her and thinking otherwise. Maybe you've never thought that the guy that wears black and shuffles along in the hallways likes to paint and have Disney marathons on rainy days.

Maybe.

Who knows?

People are so interesting and unique and shy and strange. They have an aura of mystery wrapped so thickly around them that it makes me curious about how nervous they are on a first date, how they like their coffee, and how much tears a sci-fi show would evoke.

It's a very simple question: do you believe in such things? In phantoms? In demons? Do you believe that a deceased spirit still wanders aimlessly on this earth long after they've died?

When I say ghosts, most people would think of Halloween - of someone with a white sheet wrapped around them, two ragged holes cut out as eyes, sneaking around in a futile attempt to scare others with their pathetic little "boos" - as if that will do anything.

No, friend. Humans have completely misunderstood them, except that they are pale - not deathly pale, but more like a washed out color, like your favorite t-shirt washed so many times, the pictures have cracked and the color has turned dull and faded. You can't look at one head-on. You can only see glimpses of them sometimes from the corner of your eye, but it is a blur if they even choose to appear to you. They are not scary either, regardless of what silly human beings have said. They are just like you and me, except they have supposedly 'passed on'.

Ghosts. They are sad beings, lonely beings looking for company in a world crowded with the living, with so many dead just like them that they pass right by, that they cannot see.

Have you ever sat out during a basketball game? You would understand the feeling of almost ceasing to exist, especially to what seems to be important. You are part of the game, but not really. It takes place on another level, without you. They laugh without you. They foul the ball without you. They score without you. You do not feel like you are a part of them, at least not then. You feel detached, as if everything is happening right before your eyes and you can't even join in.

I am not very good with analogies, but that is what it feels like.