An anecdote a day...

She was sitting on the cold gravel road, surrounded by a thousand others. She knew few of them; none were her friends. She was dying for a drink of water, and perhaps another one of those cream buns they were giving out. Suddenly a sudden jolt brought her hand upwards to her pocket. She reached in. The light flashed and she thoughtlessly tapped, when she usually would have just turned her attention away. It was to be a defining moment; it shaped part of her many years to come. It’s the small choices we make, the ones we sometimes give no thought; that define greater parts of our lives.

Another anecdote.

Someday you’ll come for me, on your mighty steed with a shining chariot tailing behind. You’ll slide off and I’ll run to you arms, and we’d be the happiest people on the planet. We’d laugh once again. Better this time, because I laugh better now. My eyes will shine as it looks into yours. You’ll pull me into your arms closer, and hold me tight. I’d close my eyes, breathe in the most wonderful scent of contentment, and then my eyes would flutter open.

And I’d realize that it was all just a dream.

I'm so stressed, this is horribly written.

I want to, but I can’t. It’s frustrating, hateful, and stressful. I want to know but there’s almost nothing I can do. I’m stuck not knowing and while I know I won’t suffer without it, I want to know. How can I trust if I never find out? The doors that are open, the people that are welcoming, what do they hide? Is it someone I know or is it just an opportunist who has benefited from a careless soul? Do I ransack my own life hoping that it was just me? Where do I start? My mind won’t be at peace til I find some form of closure, but there seems no hope.

Some day this will come true.

She doesn’t have a mailing address because she never receives mail. Not unless it were from a government agency, bank, or some sort of institution. This time it was different. She knew before she even touched it. It was a soft, silvery hue of pink. The surface smooth and undented, unscratched. She placed the tip of her finger on the envelope. A lump started to form in her throat. She knew what it was without knowing. She just knew.

Her light fingers lifted up the envelope into her palm. A waft of powdery scent greets her nose. It’s a soft hint of a scent, but it suffocates her. She looks at the name carefully printed on the outside of the envelope. It’s hers. She checks again just to make sure. She takes one deep, shaky breath. She touches the seal behind the envelope. Light fingernails slip under the seal, running smoothly along the length of it. She touches the broken seal. She takes another deep breath. The powdery scent greets her nostrils and she stops.

She touches the edge of what is inside. The color matches the envelope. The lump in her throat doubles in size. She turns the envelope to its side and slips her finger in. Almost afraid to touch what is inside. She gently pulls it out. She sees the map. She recognizes it without looking at it. She knows. She knows without knowing. She touches the embossed edges, running her fingers lightly on it. As if afraid to leave a mark. As if not touching it makes it less real somehow. She breathes in the powdery scent once more.

She turns it over; her eyes dead, but her heart on rapid fire. Her chest pounding so hard it would crush steel. She touches the embossing once again. Her mind forces her to look at the corners, but her eyes tears away. Just one more second. Just one more before it becomes real. Please, just one more. Her head drops, her chin almost touching her chest. She fingers the embossing again. She looks at the corners where the names are. She looks one more time just to be sure. She looks at the generic lettering that accompanies those names. She looks at the customary long line of dots where her name was supposed to be.

It felt like a gush of ice cold water. Her name belonged on the dotted lines. Not in the corners. Those dotted lines meant for the other nameless, faceless, starving souls that were to come. Her name wasn’t there. She was nameless, faceless, starving, in his eyes.

It is your courtesy to let me know.

It is my courtesy not to go.

I write one last note, leave it in my glass bottle.

It is for me to write, not for you to find.

I set it free where we used to laugh together.

I set free what I’ve kept hidden.

It will always be there, in my glass bottle.

It's not true all the time, but it is right now.

If you don’t want to hear the sounds or can’t bear the light, go into your own room; not close the door of mine.

If you repeat what I said and add three words to my sentence, it does not show you are intelligent and in no way do I find it an enjoyable conversation. You may find that I abruptly stop my side of the “conversation”.

No, I do not consider it a by-the-way thing when you marry off your garbage to mine. I call it an intrusion.

Repeating a phrase you find funny might be funny to you, but it makes me think of you as an idiot.

Do not ask me a question that you do not want to hear the true answer to.

Do not ask me a question that there is only one answer to.

Unless you have some idea of how I am expected to answer your question, do not bother asking me.

Avoid asking me typical questions that you would ask anyone else. Go ask those idiots. You seem to fit in quite well with them.

Avoid asking me questions out of common courtesy. You either mean very little to me that I can’t be bothered to answer you, or I find you unintelligent enough to think of much more useful questions. Common courtesy doesn’t show you care. It shows you have common courtesy.

Unless you have been following my work life very closely, do not ask me of it. It is very exhausting to explain to people who don’t know. If I wanted to talk about it, I would bring it up. If I don’t it’s probably because I don’t feel like explaining things to you.

I spend most of my day talking. I am very much capable of talking. If you find me silent, it is definitely by choice. Unless you come armed with the right things to say or ask, be prepared for curt answers or snappish retorts. If you feel offended, it is because I aimed to offend you.

I am mean. It’s in my nature. It’s how I protect myself; it’s how I cover my wounds. Feel free to walk away. Many others have walked before you. It doesn’t make you unique.

It takes a long time for me to admit to myself that I am in trouble; that I need help. It takes me twice as long to admit it to another person. It means that I trust you. I don’t trust a lot of people.

I don’t trust a lot of people. I lie as easily as I lift my fingers. If I choose to tell you the truth it means something. If I lie to spare you your feelings, it means something.

It is one thing to use broken language when you know the “correct” language. It is a whole other thing to think you are too old to learn and continue using horrible language.

When I correct you it means you still matter to me. I don’t bother with people I have no concern with. If you respond with “oh, I didn’t know because I’m stupid” or “yeah, you’re so much smarter” I know you have stopped learning. You have lost value to me. Congratulations.

No, you do not understand how I feel. Especially not when I have only started half a sentence of my story.

When I was little I was terrified that someday I might end up injured or sick in a hospital, alone and no one with me. It still terrifies me, but I have found that there are worse things that one could go through.

I am just as human as you are. It takes a lot for me to hide that.

I don’t have to agree with you in order to like you.

Just because I agree with you doesn’t mean I like you.

When I get cold I enjoy watching the hairs of my arm stand up on end. I imagine them trying to catch “warm particles” and they bring them down to my arm to make it warm again.

Sometimes I don’t want to talk; I just want hugs and cuddles.

Sometimes I don’t want hugs and cuddles, I just want to punch and pinch you where it doesn’t hurt so much. I won’t hit so hard, but I still want to see you flinch because it comforts me to know that I’m not in pain alone.

Cuddles are super great when the person smells nice.

I found out the hard way that if you scratch yourself from the outside of clothes, it eventually causes you to bruise.

The hardest thing I still cannot bring myself to do is to voice an invitation, or that I would like to join you. It doesn’t mean I enjoy being excluded. I’d just rather deal with the hurt of missing out then being turned down. It means the world to me just to be asked.

Experiences mean more to me than material possessions.

I don’t enjoy playing with my phone. I find people who always have their noses glued to theirs to be shallow. People think too little as it is. Glancing at you having thoughtless conversations or playing mindless games or posting thoughtless pointless gibberish just proves my point.

If the conversation is “easy”, I don’t consider it worth having.

I no longer feel the need to be nice to everyone. That doesn’t mean I will go out of my way to be mean. But if I can, and you deserve it, I will.

Just because you like something, doesn’t mean you are good at it.

Life is more than just doing things you like. Unless you’re a hippie. I don’t consider you a responsible adult if you choose to do something you like in place of paying your own bills.

In every relationship, ask yourself, are you the leader, follower, or an equal? A lot of relationships fail because either one or both cannot agree on these roles. That’s why some relationships can only work when there is no bond.

He wasn't running away, nor was he running towards anything. He was just running.

She found him as a little cub, shivering under the doorsteps. He was a long way from home, unknown to her where his mama could be. So she took him in, and they curled up by the fire while he purred on her chest. In the mornings he’d eagerly lap up a whole carton of milk, in the afternoons they’d have a snooze in the sunny spot under the tree. At night he’d curl up at her toes, keeping them warm.

He grew up big and strong, finishing off a dozen chickens if you’d let him. He was as frisky as a kitten, and the furniture was never in good shape. He cleaned his mane no less than 16 times a day. His coat gleamed in the sun, and the old tree could barely shade his magnificent body. She would run to the door every time she got home from school, knowing that he’d be there, playfully pouncing on her. She was twice her size now. Full grown, but adolescent still.

One night she looked at him, almost dropping off the bed’s end, and she knew. She knew that the dreaded day had come. She touched her jaw, where the deep scar ran, from the time he was hungry and she was a bit slow getting the chicken. It was just an accident; he had never meant to hurt her. He never meant to break all the chairs; he just wanted to know what it was like to sit in one. He had never meant to send all the other kids home screaming; he just wanted to come and say hello.

So the very next morning, she took him on a long drive. The reserve was many miles away, but she knew she just had to make the drive. Drive she did, and as strong as she had promised herself she’d be, she knew the tears couldn’t be stopped. He’s happy with me she tried to console herself. He’s known no other happiness other than with me. This time a tear escapes and runs down her cheek. He lifts up his giant head, he hears her muffled sniffle. He always loved rides, but this time it felt different. He didn’t feel happy somehow, like he knew something bad was to come.

She eventually reached the reserve gates, daylight almost gone. She met with a park ranger, who told her she was doing the right thing. As much as they loved each other, he belonged in the wild. Keeping him would be selfish, even if it did hurt the both of them. She had served him well in his years of need, and now was the time to let go.

Go now, you’re free. He didn’t budge. The vast open lands of the reserve were much cooler in the night. The ranger said it was the best time of the year to set him free. The weather wouldn’t be too harsh for him to adapt, and there were plentiful gazelles for him to hunt. He had put a tracker on him, so he’d keep an eye out, but she had done all that she could. Now was the time to let her go.

She painfully pushed him forward. Don’t you understand? Go! Be free. Be happy in this great land where you belong with other lions for you to play with and for you to start your own family. He didn’t budge. He stood strong, eyes unblinking. He seemed to understand what she meant but he stayed fast in his spot. He let out a little whimper, the kind he kept special when he wanted the extra piece of chicken. She broke down. He cuddled near her. Why are you making this so hard? It’s for your own good. Go! He placed his giant paw on top of her head. She took a deep breath and stood up again. She dried her eyes, she looked into his eyes.

She taught him how to play the piano, or knock on a piano at the very least. He taught her the value of being honest, for he always knew when she was telling a lie. She taught him how to used the toilet, until one day the toilet broke under his immense weight. He taught her the value of hugs, especially when you don’t think you need one. She taught him how to eat ice cream, and remembered how scared she was when he fell sick.

They loved each other; and as the park ranger’s eyes bore witness to such great love, he too knew that it had to end. She was working three jobs just to support his food supplies. He was risking a shorter life by living in such limited bounds.

Then came the bitter part. She picked up a rock. Her hand trembled as she held it, but she knew she had to. She gave him one big heave. “Go! I hate you! I don’t want you to come back with me! I hate you!” she screamed. Her voice was weak, and the tears were pouring down. He looked up in surprise. She picked up another and struck him again. “Go!” she yelled. This time a little louder. A little stronger. “I never want to see you again!” His eyes widened, and pain ran across his face. He backed up a little. She picked up another rock. Then another, then another. And with each, he drew back just a little. She was careful not to strike him in the same place twice. She prayed that she didn’t hurt him too much, but she needed him to go. Start his own life, maybe his own pride. They both needed to move on. And as much as their love bound them together all these years, it was not a love that was meant to last. She took one last rock and threw it. “I hate you! Go away! I never want to see you again!” He started to run towards the trees. He turned back, just to look at her face just to be sure that this was the same person who stayed up all night with him telling him about zebras and monkeys, this was the person who sat up late at night worried when he had that tummy ache after eating the bad frozen milky stuff. It was. But it wasn’t her. This was a cruel, unloving version of her. His heart bled, his body hurt, and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and he ran. He flew through the woods, panting and gasping for air…….

If only that was all.

She was immaculate; beautifully groomed from head to toe. She demanded heads to turn to her when she walked into a room. Not this time. She was still as beautifully dressed, but different somehow. Her radiance was gone. When she carefully tread into the store, she looked absolutely terrified. She bought a small amount of food, and the bells by the door chimed as she exited. A loud crash was heard. He had beaten her down with the back of his hand. She was cowering on the floor, the food sprawled down the steps. He struck her again.