The Scattering of the Leaves

My body is tired. I leave the gym with a sense of accomplishment and hope. Running and sweating to Mika can be helpful to anybody. But it's the feeling I have afterward that really locks my mind in place. 

I am walking slowly, my legs aching slightly, and listening to the very opening of "Any Other World." The piano notes, two alternating at first, and then going into a recognizable tune, play off of the wind scattering the leaves across the sidewalk at my feet. It is a simple moment, but one that stays in my mind for a little while after, bringing me some kind of peace. 

The people walking in the same area, all listening to their own songs with firmly secured headphones, they all stay the course. They walk, undisturbed by the dead, curling leaves tossing about in patterns unrecognizable by human eyes. One girl in-particular stares pointedly at the ground ahead of her, her light pink sweatshirt shrouding her beating heart. 

I stop, maybe only for a moment, less than a second, watching the leaves as they are thrown about. The intro with the piano, before Mika's voice comes in, lasts less than 20 seconds. This feeling lasted maybe twenty milliseconds. This moment. 

It was enough. 

Over 2000 Multi-Colored Balloons (which is similar to the song, but not close enough to be cool)...

As though twenty, fat, latex babies are rubbing up against your legs like cats begging for attention litter the floor around you, these ovarian objects float obnoxiously through the room, following the currents of air. Dancing with large balloons bouncing about at your feet is not the ideal way I would choose to have fun, especially as, after another hour, the balloons are slimy with beer. I could write another post complaining of the idiocy of college students, but that is not really something I want to talk about again, considering I am one of them. 

So onto another topic...

When I sleep in a sort-of half-awake stage, normal happenings seem very strange to me. I have opinions about everything that I hear, though my eyes are not open and my mind is not really on. Sleeping like this, the world seems very warm and cosy; the pillows and blankets surrounding me are dreamlike, and too comfortable to make me want to move at all. My world is an orb of soft, golden light and I am pleasantly resting in the middle of it all. 

Waking up is a  long process, involving several failing attempts paced hours apart and interrupted by roommates coming and going. Eventually, my senses begin to be restored. I breathe deeply and purposefully. My eyes flutter, and my world is still very warm and golden, but sharper now, and more real. As the world begins to slow down, my body begins to wake up and my life moves on once again. And my life moves on once again...

The Shaking House

Remember the vibration: the beat. The floor is slippery from beer or sweat, and shoes slide in screeching patterns. The shivering of the dance floor pulses throughout my entire body, my pelvis trembling with a sensual feeling that only blasted, twenty-first century rap can give me.
Strobe lights overhead accelerates the feeling of complete disorientation, and for a moment I feel as though I am being tortured into senselessness. My eyes try to blink in time to the flickering light and cannot keep up with its fast pace. 
Every once in awhile the lights switch to disco-like colors, or that one would find in a nineties skating rink. Black lights along the walls give an underground sensation, and a slightly scary one. Teeth, when exposed in wide smiles in a dark room under the black light, are very bright. They glow with a terrifying, alien gleam that tends to match equally opaque eyes. Those with contact lenses are especially noticeable.
There is something to said for the closeness of humans in such an environment. Bodies pressed together, elbows and knees slamming into each other, girls in sweaty, silky shirts swaying to the rhythm of the bass-line beat, boys staring in fear or confidence, hands on the hips of his two-minute dancing partner: this seems very primal. 
Stepping into a room full of inebriated minors and dancing wildly to awful rap music (really, who came up with 'bag you like some groceries'? is that art?) for two hours has never been my idea of fun, but; welcome to college. All I can really say is that I'll try to enjoy myself while I can, out in the dark, cool night with my friends; ready to feel that bass again.

My Post-Secret

Following a recent trend I've noticed about a program (if one could really call it that) named Post-Secret, I have decided to reveal something about myself. I tried to think of a meaningful secret. Something relatable to other's lives and hopefully one that has not been mentioned too often yet (I do enjoy trying to be unique). 

So here is my secret: 

All my life, I have generally considered any religious person's to be one of two things. Liars, or severely misguided. 

I want a miracle. I want to be shown the way. I want to be one of those misguided people, because I want that comfort of just knowing. 

Having said that, I'd like to prepose a (mostly) rhetorical question. Why do humans feel the need to be certain about things?

I know it is a comforting feeling, to know for certain, to know exactly what is going to happen, why and where and how and the effect of the cause the the reaction to the action and the place your soul will go when you die and whether or not you even have a soul, but why? Why do we need to be comforted? Why do we need to be loved? It certainly isn't for reasons of reproduction, a creature does not need to love in order to reproduce. So why do we need this? 

If there happen to be any experts browsing the thousands of miles of cyber-space who fall upon this page, I need some answers. I just don't know.

Sun Salutation

Yoga. It is nine on an already warm morning, and I am in a brilliantly colored tie-dye long sleeved shirt and white pants. Movement clothing. The classroom for our once-in-awhile yoga sessions is warmer than the air outside, and the sun shines in cruelly on our un-caffeinated eyes. We pull long, thin yoga mats out and sit, strategically placing ourselves throughout the large room according to whether we want to be noticed or not. I sit in the very front row, to the left of the instructor. I like seeing what I'm doing in the mirror; I'm well aware of my vanity. 

Already, warming up with poses named, it seems, by children, I am hot. My long clothing is stuffy and I know it will get worse, I will become quite uncomfortable. I try to relax. I breathe, inhaling, exhaling at my "own pace." 

My mind is concentrated in the room. I see myself perform the poses, stretching and moving. I notice but try not to pay attention to the others in the room. The instructor keeps my constant attention. And for awhile, this is the exact truth. We reach a series of movements called the Sun Salutation; and I begin to dream. 

I see myself, or perhaps my dream self, dressed in brilliant gold. I am an Indian princess, posed gracefully on a bejeweled elephant, high above the people of the world. I am the sun and they greet me, as I greet them; one yoga position at a time. I am so high I can see the curve of the horizon, proof of the roundness of the world. I gaze in pride at my land, my world. 

I see no global warming. I see only warmth.

I see no wars and bloodshed. I see only peace.

And I see myself in a undulated mirror; my tie-dye shirt fraying at the hem, my hair in a strange and effortless bun. And I see my classmates and the sun shining in. 

I greet the sun. "Sun... Salutations." 

First- Following the Blind Man.

The air is crisp and I can feel goosebumps rise on my limbs. I take each step with purpose, however lethargic I feel at nine in the morning. The concrete path I travel on is smoothly paved; light in color and mostly unbroken. The light yellow sun is hidden behind the grayish-white clouds. A breeze picks up and chills me even further, and I stare at the green and yellow trees around me in an ever-returning awe for the beauty of nature. 

My ears prick up as I hear the erratic click of an animals paws on the pavement. I turn to see a dog leading a man my age, the human's eyes roaming aimlessly and his light brown hair tousled, uncombed. He wears a simple outfit, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and black tennis shoes. Short white socks peek out from the interior of the shoe. The dog, is a deep, glossy, black color. His fur is well-kept and his harness is a leather brown rectangle. I slow down to stare, my mind whirring through all the vast possibilities of how he inherited the condition. Ignorant and thirsty for knowledge as I am, I nearly stop in my tracks watching the two make their way along the left hand edge of the sidewalk. 

The black dog watches every multi-colored person that passes, carefully, noting each movement; and every person that passes watches him as well. Students with  purple and brown and gray hoodies, black and green backpacks, walking in the opposite direction swerve out of the blind man's path as soon as they see him coming. Following a few feet behind and to the side, I watch as well. I record passersby reactions when they realize the man is blind. Most reveal faces of pity, never trying to hide their blatant expressions as they would when watching a person who could see. Some smile gently, as though comforted by the dog's presence in the man's life. Many ignore the very existence of the two, going on their way, purposefully looking everywhere but at the man and his dog. 

In my haste to follow the man, I forget my purpose in walking in the first place. I follow him, watching as the dog leads him through an open door with a bright yellow "Automatic" sign pasted onto it, and as the boy pauses for a moment, hesitantly feeling the space where the door should be when closed. I follow through the dark hallway, the gray-blue carpet dull in the dim lighting, students rushing to class and jerking out of his way in their hurry. I follow him up the stairs, watching at the dog leads the man first to the rail with chipped blue paint, then up, to the rail and up. We reach the second floor and I realize I have followed the two into the wrong building. I begin walking the way I need to go to get to the correct one, I can use a sturdy red bridge between the two, and realize with a shock of upmost joy; he is going the same way. 

I try not to think about whether or not he would be offended by my curiosity. I try to watch him with only the curiosity of a child, knowing I should know better and stop following him on his way. I watch his feet, clumsy in their movements on the steps. I watch his hands as they grope for the door handles, opening each door quickly, letting his dog lead him dutifully through.

I make it to class. I concentrate on my test. I forget about the blind man. I remember this though, the colors are bright for me. I live in a world of possibilities.