If I'm not the same, then who the world am I?

ah, and that's the great puzzle.

Light

it's funny when you wake up and you realize how awake you are. your shirt is drenched in sweat and the light is so bright. it makes you squint. when have you ever realized the power of the sun? the warmth of rays peeking at your flesh. it kind of hurts. you can feel it. maybe it doesn't hurt, but the presence startles you so. it's the middle of the morning and time seems to have blended the past into one fuzzy timeline with a beginning and and end but somehow you just only remember waking up and you're standing there with your hand on the knob of the door wide open. the cool breeze crawls through my sleeves and i feel cooled like i had taken a shower. i'm fresh. i had been birthed into a full stature capable man straight from the womb of my sheets. i vaguely remembered my dreams. they feed my mind imaginations like some invisible form of an umbilical cord. i never remember my dreams. when i'm on the cusp of recalling, they disappear and crumble into confetti. remembering is harder than piecing the little pieces together and it's frustrating. i'll never see the full picture. but who cares?! i felt ready to do something different for my past was all left over night when i gave it to the moon.

Riding Together

there is that interstate we always go through. it takes me two freeways to get to usually. but if i wanted to take a more unfamiliar route, one freeway. i drive north to get to it and it runs east and west. it will always remind me of you when i drive it east bound. the thing is, i have to drive it west bound first, then turn around and take it east bound. it's right there. that last stretch that is so specific.

there's a pattern and that's why it's so definitive in our relationship. there's only one way and certain steps we have to take to get to it. i leave my home, take a freeway i hardly ever go on to your neck of the woods , spend time with you, and when the time comes to take you home, that's the time. that's when it happens. that moment usually before i get to your house to drop you off; those 8 minutes.
there's certain music that play within the car. for some reason, the melody switches and it's of a serene nature. there's a certain wave of road we go through, and i can write a whole essay describing it's construction alone.
i drift off into this time warp. there's a certain beginning. right when i merge on the start of that stretch of broken concrete, i zoom under a couple bridges hanging over me. at that point, its like running into jello. it's four miles of a jello bubble. if i had to give it a flavor, it'd be raspberry.
i tend to drive faster than the rest of the cars. we're moving at 75 miles an hour.
right as the bridges pass, the road narrowly curves to the left. from there, i have to watch out for a merge of oncoming lanes from the right. right after is when it curves right, directionally. i love those curves. it feels like a meaningless obstacle and 3 minutes pass like seconds. i pretend i'm racing. it's exciting and i clutch the shift knob and drive with one hand. it's a roller coaster but with complete control. thus, the power of a moment.

whenever i drive through this neck of the freeway, it'll feel like you're riding shotgun along with me crooning through every curve and feeling every bump that follow because we recognize the pattens all too familiarly. the climactic jumps still get us even when we know it's coming. they're dramatic. i always apologize afterwards when the car bounces hard like an airplane tackling a landing and i never know why.

the last four minutes always feel new. they feel raw and i never get used to it. maybe it's because we're recovering from the drop and our minds etch-a-sketch.
i know that once i drop you off, i'll believe i'll never see you again, but somehow we manage to bump into each other when the season comes around.

this interstate has a secret. it's alive and people pass by not recognizing it.

Spirit Animal

i stopped dead in my tracks feeling faint. sweat was dripping down my hot face and i licked my cracked lips. my dry tongue swept across my upper lip. my movement was slow and weak. i could taste the salt that had melted from my pores resting on the cliff of these lips and the sour flavor startled my senses. i decided to lay down in the greenest patch of grass i could find that was visible in the sea of dirt. i just lay there with no control of my muscles, thankful for the life raft of grass keeping me placid. i zoned out and looked at the stars in the sky and it wrapped my vision in every periphery . i did this a lot- looked for answers in the mysteries of space. i feel it holds a higher power and answer to everything i don't know. this time i focused on the north star and it seem practical for an answer.
my body was flat on the ground like a jigsaw puzzle. i had become comfortable. the cool grass relieved me and it was nice to not stand after almost an hour of treading through dirt and dry desert with no sense of direction where to go.
i was hoping that the star i was glaring at was actually the north star. i was sure it was only because it was the brightest shining one stuck up there. i wanted to have a moment to myself and connected the dots finding the constellations i knew and challenged myself with others. i made up a penguin, polar bear and seal. then there was a snow owl. an actual snow owl jet through the sky. it was fast but i followed it so intently and noticed the distinctive brown bars and spots on its white entirety. i studied animals as a child. they fascinated me and i was sure i saw a snow owl. the only inconclusive thought was that it was far from home and i was in a horrible condition. it was possible i was delusional.
i sat up and closed my eyes wrapping my arms around my knees.
suddenly, i felt a pinch on both my shoulders and craned my head up with caution to see the owl standing above me much larger than i imagined. it's talons didn't hurt and i thought it was unusual because i look nothing like a tree. the owl was not afraid and i surprisingly wans't startled. i had no energy left to fight if i was being preyed upon.
"Lets go home," said the owl, lifting me into midnight oblivion. my spirit animal.

Slight of Hand

my fingertips punch the keyboard of the laptop. it's beautiful to see my hands move this way. the fingers dance around and i think about how the letters are put in their place so perfectly. the balance there was for the number of vowels distinguished for each hand and the number each hand does with the tapping. it's just so interesting to see my fingers do their thing. typing had become a natural motor skill imbedded into my dna. i think and type and it all looks so weird. i sit here and type and watch as my mind thinks about what i want to be typing and how it translates to these fingers. sometimes i think i should be able to play the piano with hands this crazy. i could be a surgeon- just hand me the endoscopic scissors, give me a reading on blood pressure and do you concur? yes or no? do you or do you not, concur?! i was voted number one finger painter in second grade making little ryan king cry like a seven year old. when he wiped the tears off his face and hyperventilated uncontrollably, i just looked down at my hands palms up twinkling my fingers as if they were magical. i mean, look what i did to the kid. i looked up and there was an unusual ring glowing about my forehead. my parents and people always told me not to point and it made my fingers seem more mysterious. pointing was forbidden. they had the power to curse. but i love sign language. some gestures are so simple and poetic to convey a meaning. it never seemed too complicated, but it was a secret language that mystified me. i would watch an episode on television of people just signing. sometimes these hands play rock, paper, scissor. sometimes these hands model gloves. they've helped people off the ground, they've brushed through sand and have done oil changes. they've felt sticky, soft and raw. sometimes my hands get nervous and sweat. they've grazed soft skin and picked noses.
i wash them everyday along with memories of where they've been. the eyes stare most of the attention. but today my eyes watch my hands. i started to remember these friends of mine and they look foreign, but most of the time, i never focus on my hands. it was always about what they held. that was what was always important. the rumpled lincoln on a bill, the leather on a baseball, other people's hands, running water, business cards, a banana ....
but today, i'm checking my hands out. what a beautiful thing it is.

The White Refrigerator

he opened the white pristine door of the fridge. this one opened from the left . it was three tiered, didn't have egg holding molds, or an aluminum can dispenser, but did have quarantined spaces for specific food groups. this one was A on a grade scale. it's filled. not much room for space, organized, had an assortment of beverages- canned and bottled, and was colorful. You had healthy greens from carrots to romaine lettuce separated in containers on top. the ranch was there if you felt like dipping or snacking. the oranges were cut in slices. strawberries freshly cut sitting in a yellow plastic basket and every vitamin water and flavor of starbucks bottled frappuccino ever presented, lined the rear and right side wall. the cheese was in blocks on the second tier next to brown colored eggs. there is a container with boston market baked beans, mashed potatoes separated from the brown gravy also from boston market and under that on the third tier was packaged chinese food in those inflated cardboard envelopes. to the left on bottom were canned ginger ale, cranberry juice and club soda. the organization was a mild case of ocd. it reminded him of a food pyramid.
in his hand was the fettucini alfredo in gladd tupperware. he saw the light sauce, basil and nicely cooked shrimp and didn't have to think twice about scooping it. it was the first thing he saw.
next step was the table settings. there was no need to look. sitting beside the faucet was a rack that held wet kitchen necessities for dry. bowl and fork. found easier done than said. the fork was beautifully crafted. it looked like silver and was designed just as royal and fancy like that of a queen's. he started to look at the handles of all the silverware.
amazing. they're all the same. plus the plates were all porcelain. what a life. these people eat like kings he thought. and he cut out a small portion of the fettucini for himself to pop into the microwave. eh, two shrip would suffice. lifting the fork, he exercised his wrists.

he tackled the left overs. he figured you could always feel obligated to it. it wasn't new and the portion was big. he drew the line if something was untouched and too newly packaged. to him, that seemed invasive and required too much effort to open things just bought. he was a guest who was taking advantage of guest entitlement.

30 seconds.
as he waited, he scanned the composition and layout. everything was compact. it was like a hallway and everything he wanted was at the place of a turn. he looked at the honey bear honey and girl scout cookies on top of the microwave. impressive.
he looked at the countdown. 16 seconds. 15. 14. counting along impatiently as the microwave hummed, he cupped along the napkins to straighten them out. and 3, and 2, and one.
happy new year!
there was a long electronical beep. yummy.

Referencing Love

i clasped her hand as a gesture of hello. although i had not spoken or had seen her in a very long time, that was all i could do. what i wanted to do was get out of the car and crush her with a hug that said i didn't want to let go- not this time, not ever. suddenly, i realized i was still holding onto her hand after a brief stare into her eyes. the hug transfixed itself into the form of my hands gently squeezing out longing and comfort. i let go.
if i had continued to hold longer, i'm sure it would have made us both uncomfortable and render me to think of her more. i didn't know if i wanted to think about her more. i had thought about her a lot before and i had done so occasionally, but actually seeing her was different. just different.

he followed her distant look and surprised movement. she left sarcastically and all he thought about was her state of transformation and how she was doing. so he sat there idly, sunken into the seat spineless. the lot was full of cars and the sun had just set casting a glow of fuchsia surfing with the clouds and it was getting dark, fast.

she left him gracefully swinging away with her outfit palate of grey. she had grown her hair out and it fit her most maturely. oh, how cute. she was an out of town dancer just stopping by and on her way. as she left the stage, slow music crept into the scene and steadily positions into what can only be recognized as erik satie's gymnopedie no.1.

i sat there starting into the sky trying to catch the sudden instant changes of color and tone. i've witnessed chalky yellows fade to soft oranges to light pinks to brooding blues in matters of minutes. It goes by so fast every time and it awes me. maybe i'll catch it this time.