Possible Triggers

                “Hey man.”

                “Hey.”

                “How’s it going?”

                “S’alright, yeah. You?”

                “Decent. You hear about Jenny?”

                “What? Jenny, isn’t she that girl we have calculus with?”

                “Yeah, Dave saw her making out with Denise. You know what that means!”

                “What are you talking about?”

                “Dude, there are lesbians. In our class. They’re gonna make out and shit and we can watch!”

                “That’s not how that works. Maybe you should just give them space. Obviously they don’t want people to know.”

                “Fuck that, what’s your problem? They’re hot. Don’t you want to watch?”

                “They’re people. It’s their life, they aren’t doing it for you to watch.”

                “Whatever, you gay or something? Maybe they’ll let me join in.”

                “I’m pretty sure they don’t want you to ‘join in’.”

                “Maybe not at first, but once I get started they’ll love it.”

                “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

                “What?”

                “Guy, that’s rape. You can’t do that.”

                “Jesus, man, they’re just some dykes. They don’t know what they’re missing. They’ll like it.”

                “No, that’s not allowed. That’s straight up rape man. You’re talking about raping two people!”

                “Chill out, it’s fine. God, people get so worked up these days. Can’t I just have some fun with these two? They’ll like it, all women like dick once they try it.”

                “Listen, you gotta shut up about this. You can’t say these things.”

                “Fuck off, pussy.”

                “Hey, Jenny? Do you have a sec?”

                “Um, hi, do I know you?”

                “Not really, we have calculus together. Listen, you know John?”

                “The football douche? No offense if he’s you’re friend.”

                “No, he’s a douche. His friend Dave saw you and Denise—“

                “What did he say? What do you want?”

                “No, it’s nothing like that. Not really. I just want to let you know. John’s gonna tell people. And…”

                “And what?”

                “He wants to sleep with you and Denise and it doesn’t matter to him if you guys say yes… He thinks all women are straight no matter what.”

                “Are…are you serious?”

                “Yeah.”

                “He told you that?”

                “Yeah. Called me gay when I told him that was wrong. Listen, I don’t know what you can do, but just be careful.”

                “Hey, thanks for letting me know.”

                “Yeah.”

                Things like this are a sad reality to those in the queer community. This specific kind of rape even has a name: corrective rape. It happens when straight people, men and women, rape a gay, bi, pan, ace, trans, person in the attempt to “show them the error in their ways”. Lesbians and asexual people are at a high risk for this. Lesbians because of how over-sexualized they are in media, and asexual people because of they are often viewed as prudish, religious, or broken. Many people think that if they have heterosexual sex with people, they will “fix” them and turn them straight.

                This mindset is brought on by religion, society, and the media. Everywhere one looks, straight couples are shown as the normal, as the correct thing. It is with this environment that corrective rape came to being. This is why queer people call out for better representation in the media. This is why it is important for corporations to listen. And yet straight people will get upset. “They can’t be gay”, “Dude, they’re straight. Not everyone is gay”. That’s the problem. No one is gay in the media. Star Wars is thinking of adding its first gay character, and people are outraged. Why? The franchise is about space wizards with laser swords. Why the fuck can’t some of them be gay? This past year, the CW had several gay, lesbian, and bi characters. They killed off all the lesbians. Why? The death of other characters would’ve been just as shocking and impactful. But the lesbians aren’t as important as the straight characters. They’re seen as lesser. And with this attitude, corrective rape grows. Every time queer characters are treated as novelties, it dehumanizes them. And whenever something is dehumanized in the media, it leaks into real life. Look at war time propaganda, the Japanese were shown as soulless monsters who wanted to eat children, and that racism has held over. It wasn’t true, it was just propaganda. That’s today’s media though, everything has a message and a hidden meaning. Everything we watch is pushing something or someone. As we move closer to true equality, our media poisons that idea in secret.

                The sad thing is, allies get drawn into this trap as well. They support the queer community, but heaven forbid that they’re favourite characters come out as gay. Heaven forbid someone ships two male characters together.

                When only straight is seen as right and correct, corrective rape grows. That is why hate crimes against the queer community rarely get punished. That is why so many people still think it’s okay to use gay as an insult. That’s why it’s still okay to mock other genders and insult people by calling them another gender. Because we’ve been dehumanized for so long, we’ve become passive towards it. We begin to think that maybe we are overreacting, and we allow the thoughts to grow and fester until it overwhelms us. Even members of the queer community take part in the dehumanization. From telling certain groups that they aren’t gay enough to be a part, to outright saying some members don’t exist.

                Until we stand together as one community—a community with many parts yes, but working together!—, we won’t be able to achieve our goals of acceptance and equality. For if we do not treat each other with equality and acceptance, why would the rest of the world?   

Hypocrisy

                It’s easy to say you stand up for certain things until faced with a situation where it becomes uncomfortable for you. Things like marriage equality and equal rights. It’s easy to say that you stand up for transgender people, so long as you never actually have to. It’s amazing how fast people can change. How one slip can show true colours. How even the smallest hint of something that’s different from them can cause people to act out.

                I’m not straight. Many of my friends are, especially the male ones—actually all the males are straight, and all but one of the females are not. They’re all very supportive of my life, but in subtle ways they, the males, show that they don’t think of it as being important, or demean it to some lesser thing. Whenever I have a post that gets a ton of attention, they shrug it away as just being about queer stuff, like that’s less important. And some of them will get visibly uncomfortable at the mere thought of gay guys. Heaven forbid two fictional males with great chemistry be more than friends. They have to be straight! Or else it’s just so very wrong.  

                People will always support things until it becomes an inconvenience to them.

                When I was a child, my uncle always said he was a big supporter of equal rights. “People are people!” He would say, as I sat on the deck with him, playing with toy trucks. “Everybody deserves an equal shot!” He would say, as we watched baseball on TV. Then people began getting equal rights, and his office building began to become more diverse. “Gotta be careful with these people; never know where they’re coming from.” He’d say, as we drove to the park. “Gonna be out of this job soon, they keep hiring more of those people,” he’d say, as he took a pull from the bottle.

                When I was a teen, my friends would say that marriage equality was wrong, and a sin against God, as they went out and drank every weekend. “Those gay people are sexual deviants. God doesn’t like when people do that,” they’d say before committing adultery. “God says we have to love everyone, so that’s what I do!” They’d say before slandering and condemning people who were different from them.

                Hypocrisy always has a hold on the world. Hypocrisy always holds people’s hearts.

                As young adult, my friends will celebrate the victories of the queer community and pretend that they can relate. They will cheer for equality, yet complain when fictional characters come out. So many accept lesbians with open arms, but the thought of two men together disgusts them. They want the refugees to come, so long as they don’t come to their towns. They want religious equality, so long as no one opens a temple in their town. They want an end to violence, yet hold tight to their guns.

                Hypocrisy runs the world. Hypocrisy runs their souls.

                Standing up is so easy, when all it takes is a single word. Standing up is hard when it actually takes time and effort. Standing up for something becomes a chore if it changes things. Standing up is hard when you actually need to accept people and change your own inner thoughts.

                People always say they’ll make a stand for things, people will always cry support, but they shy away when the time comes to actually act. Saying that you stand for something when you don’t truly doesn’t help, it makes things worse. Speaking out without action doesn’t help, it hinders.

                So many hypocrites. So many falsehoods. If you say that you’re going to take a stand, damn well take it.  

A Horror Story

                I have been told many times that the best way to get over something terrifying is to just talk about it. I usually blow that off as people just wanting gossip to share, or noisy people who need to know everything. So whenever something remotely scary would happen, I would keep it to myself. All those times almost being hit in traffic, all the encounters with wild animals late at night, all those times when you feel like someone is watching you? I bottled those up. I can’t bottle this up. I have to tell someone, to hear someone tell me it was a dream, or for someone to let me know that I am not insane. Please bear with me; I’m not used to telling stories.

               

                I had just moved into this small city. I hesitate to use the term city, as it would be a town where I’m from, but the locals call it a city, so a city it will be. I was a religious man, still am really, and had moved into the city to be a youth pastor at one of the local churches. The head pastor was a real “fire and brimstone” type, but he was generally nice and accepting of most. To get to the church I could drive for ten minutes, or I could cut across an abandoned park and walk there in five. Whenever I mentioned the park to the locals they would shiver and tell me to avoid it. Not wanting to upset the people around me, I drove to the church every time I had to be there.

                I slept through my alarm one day, and didn’t have time to drive. I decided to cut through the park this one time and just not tell any of the locals unless they asked.

                The entrance to the park was rusted shut and the paint was peeling, the uncut grass was tickling the bottom of the bar, and I could see some fallen trees further in. Other than that, it seemed fine. I hopped over the gate and made my way in. A cruel breeze came out of nowhere and a shiver rocked my whole body. I hunched my shoulders and began to walk. Another five steps and the skies got darker, like they were clouding over. I quickly glanced up to see if it was going to rain, but all I could see was a clear sky with muted colours. Smoke or a haze, I thought. I continued in.

                The first fallen tree blocked the entire path, with bush on one end and bush on the other. I silently cursed my luck and tried to pick the thinner of the bushes to walk through. Carefully pushing the branches out of my way, I made my way around the tree.

                Until my foot got caught.

                I tried to shake it loose, but to no avail. I looked down to see what I was trapped on and how I could dislodge my foot and I screamed. I could’ve swore a grey and decaying hand was grasping tight my ankle. I screamed and jumped at the same time—the jump finally dislodging my foot, and I fell backwards, landing on the other side of the tree.

                Visibly shaken, I crawled towards the bush, knowing in my heart that horror movies, other than ones about exorcism, were all fake. I had to know what I saw. Looking at the bush, all I could see were grey branches.

                “Okay,” I said aloud, “I just got my foot tangled in those branches. That’s all I saw.” I got to my feet, brushed the dust off, and turned to continue on my way.

                As I walked I could hear a rustling in the brush along the path. It’s just the wind, I told myself. I stopped when I noticed I could no longer feel the breeze, but the rustling continued.

                “Just some dumb squirrels playing,” I said to hear my own voice. Hearing something out loud always gives it more credence.

                The second tree was much smaller, and I was able to step over it. As I was bringing my right leg over the tree, I heard childlike laughter in the distance. I froze. My eyes darted to and fro trying to find the source but it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. From the corner of my eye, I could see something, but whenever I would focus, it would disappear.

                Two hands pressed into my back and I could feel breath on my neck. The laughter came from right beside my ear. The hands pushed and I tumbled to the ground, face first. I scrambled over to confront whoever pushed me only to face empty air. I could still hear the laughter as though the person was right beside me. I could hear rustling in the brush, twigs snapping, and that childish laughter. It was coming from everywhere.

                I got to my feet and ran. I hurdled the barricade on the other side, and doubled over, gasping for air. The sky was brighter, the air was warmer. I looked back at the park behind me, and for a moment I saw the form of a young boy waving at me before disappearing.

                After the service I got a ride home. When asked about my car, I lied and told the driver that I had been dropped off by a friend who goes to another church. After my morning, I didn’t think God would care about such a little lie.

                I spent the week researching in the library. By the Thursday I had found that a child had led one of his friends to the park and murdered her before killing himself. Apparently he thought by sacrificing something pure he would gain powers. Due to the tragic and horrible nature of the crime, the community had decided to close the park. Later news articles spoke of laughter and flashes of light coming the park, and still later articles spoke of exorcists and ghost hunters coming to cleanse the area.

                Nothing had worked. The story became taboo, and townspeople wouldn’t speak of what happened in the park. Soon newcomers were just warned to stay away and were never given a reason.

                That night I stood on my deck facing the park. I wasn’t focusing on anything in particular, just facing it. I was ready for bed, but I still had my crucifix on—some part of me was vainly hoping it would protect me from whatever evil resided so close to me. Inside my house lay open bibles, and crosses upon my walls. Anything remotely religious I could find was in the open, as though it could act as a ward.

                I turned to go back in when I heard the laughter again. I spun around and in the distance I could see a pair of pale eyes watching me. I could’ve sworn it smiled at me.

                I ran inside, slammed the door, and sunk to the floor. Out of my mouth tumbled prayers in every language I knew.

                The air grew still and silent, then there was a knock.

                Somehow I didn’t scream. I did start to cry however. Moments later there came a second knock. I could feel the vibrations just above my head—about the height a child would knock. I stifled another scream. Following the third knock, I could hear the laughter.

                Coming from above me. Where my bedroom was.

                Now I screamed.

                I grabbed the closest bible, and ran into the park.

                At the first fallen tree I stopped and began to recite scripture, screaming it out in Greek and Latin.

                I felt things tracing lines on my back. At first they didn’t hurt, and then moments later they would explode in pain. Red dots would appear in my vision and I struggled to stand and speak.

                Looking back now, I think I was just making it mad.

                Suddenly the tracing on my back stopped, and I felt a tap on my shoulders. My breath caught in my throat, and I got cold.

                I turned slowly and looked down. Standing there was the form of a boy who looked around seven. He had dark hair that flopped lazily over his forehead, he was wearing ripped jeans, and an old polo shirt, his skin was grey and patchy, and his eyes—dear God, his eyes! were swirling white and grey. Held lightly in his hand was a knife coated and dripping with blood. He, it, smiled and whispered, like a child trying to scare another, “boo.”

                I fainted.

                The next morning I woke up in pain. My chest was burnt, radiating outwards from the crucifix still around my neck. The bible I had brought with me was a pile of ash.

                I moved the next day, leaving the majority of my possessions behind. To this day I don’t take my crucifix off.

                In my time as a youth pastor I encountered many things. Things that I couldn’t have explained outside of the church: miracles, second chances, demonic possession. All those things I faced head on. I have faced, before and since, both metaphorical and literal demons, and nothing terrifies me as much as that night. To this day, the sound of children laughing is enough to make me break down.

                You may scoff at my tale, you may think me crazy, you may use it to scare others, but I had to tell it. For my sake I had to tell it. So maybe one day I won’t hear the laughter every time I close my eyes. So maybe one day I can see my own reflection again instead of his.  

Ankle deep, did it flow

                Once there was fought a vicious war. On one side were a peaceful people just going about their lives, on the other were a brutal and savage people who oft-times warred amongst themselves. The religious leader of these brutes saw this, and decided to unite all his followers to a common cause: wiping out those terrible peaceful people who followed a different path than themselves.

                The armies of the savage folk gathered, now at peace with each other under the promise of untold violence and riches. Together they marched, together they sailed, all the while getting closer to the peaceful people.

                They sued for peace, those peaceful people, and the savage people threw it in their faces and slaughtered those sent.

                The savage people, once at the peaceful people’s city, lay brutal siege against it. Hurling corpses and rocks over and into the walls. All day and all night did the catapults fling while the savage people built more and more weapons of hate to take the city.

                And then the siege was over. The savage people moved their towers to the walls and their rams to the gates, and over and through they went. Their swords cut down the enemy soldiers, but not there did they stop. Their swords cut down all the women, all the children, all the old, all the sick, all who still drew breath within the city.

                It is oft-mentioned in melodrama that streets can run red rivers with blood, and on this day that statement rang true. Ankle deep did the blood flow on those lower streets as the savage people worked their deadly way through.

                They knocked down the peaceful people’s icons, and threw their own, now blood drenched, up. And once done their bloody work, once killed all who once called that city home, the savage people offered up prayers of joy and thanksgiving to their blood-soaked god, then they reveled and drank and fucked.

                I left the specific religions out of this. This is a true story from history, and now that I’ve said this many of you will be thinking that Islam was the religion of the savage people and that Christianity was that of the peaceful people. That’s not the case. This is the story of the First Crusade, when the Christian armies, under the direction of the Pope, went and took Jerusalem from the Muslim people. When the Christians took the city, they slaughtered every living person in it: Jew, Muslim, Christian, man, woman, child. Historians there that day spoke of streets running ankle deep in blood. During the Second Crusade, the Islamic armies retook Jerusalem. The Muslims let everyone live. They let those who wanted to stay in the city stay, and they let those who wanted to leave, leave. Too often we in the western world forget the atrocities the Christians have committed over time, the sheer of amount of lives that Christianity has taken, and we blame everything on Islam. Both religions have blood in their past and present. Both religions have their flaws. But if any one religion is to be blamed for the bad blood between the two, it should be Christianity. Christianity has strayed so far from the teachings of Christ over its two thousand year history, that we often forget the core tenant of the religion: Love God, and love your neighbours. Christians aren’t very good at love any more, and maybe they never have been.

                The next time you wish to get mad at the Muslim people, remember who struck first. Remember who continues to spread hate, and remember that the only way to end wars is to quit fighting. All of you who spread hate are just as guilty as those who resort to violence. 

A song changes

                Can You Feel the Love Tonight was playing softly in the background as the first fist made contact with my face. I’m quite sure the irony was lost on my attacker, yet it stuck out oddly in my mind. I half wanted to yell out “STOP!” just so I could change the song to something more appropriate, but I knew my attacker would just think I was begging to end the beating. As the hits continued to rain down, I had trouble believing Elton as he sang that love can make kings and vagabonds believe the very best.

                I’m not going to bore you with the minute details of the attack, or titillate with the gory details: I got attacked, ironic music was playing, I woke up three days later in the local hospital.

                The police arrived an hour or so after I woke up to ask me questions about the attack.

                They left disappointed—apparently my thoughts on Elton John were not crucial to the case. I hadn’t got a good look at my attacker; I was too busy getting punched in the face to see clearly.

                They kept calling it an assault, maybe it was, but it felt different. There wasn’t rage behind my attacker. The few times they spoke, it sounded like they were been driven by something more primal: hate. The police didn’t care about my thoughts on that, they just wanted a description, and left as soon as they realized I couldn’t give them one.

                I was kept for observation for the night, and released the next morning. On my way out, the staff all just smiled sadly as I passed, like I had been through some unfortunate accident. They pitied me. I didn’t that, I didn’t want anything from them!

                I got back to my apartment to find my girlfriend sitting on our couch, stroking our cat. Her name was Lacey, and the cat was Murphey.

                “They didn’t tell me they were letting you go today,” Lacey said as she got off the couch and rushed over to me.

                She threw her arms around me, and I responded muffled into her shoulder, “They didn’t tell me until an hour ago.”

                Lacey lightly kissed me on the lips before pulling back and gently tracing the bruising on my face. “My poor baby, did they find who did this to you?”

                I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water before responding, “No, I wasn’t much help either. I never saw their face, and the police didn’t care about what my attacked said.”

                “Your attacker talked to you? Did they want something?”

                I took a sip of water; the cold felt good traveling down my throat. “They just called me a fucking—it doesn’t matter. They said a bunch of stuff. Called me names, then just started punching me.”

                “Sam,” Lacey began with clear worry in her voice, “did they know you?”

                I paused, my glass halfway between my mouth and the counter. “It doesn’t matter Lace. They could’ve heard someone else say my name earlier in the night, could’ve been a deranged stalker. I told you, the cops didn’t care about what they said.” I put my glass down, “Can we talk about something else, please? I just. I--” I broke down. Tears burned as they rolled down my bruised, scratched, and swollen cheeks.

                Somehow I ended up on the floor with Lacey’s arms wrapped around me. She wasn’t saying anything, she was just stroking my hair as I cried. Murphey was there too, gently liking the tears off my face.

                “They knew my name,” I choked out through the tears. “They kept saying it over and over again as they beat me. ‘Sam the dyke fucker’, ‘Sam the fag’.” I started hyperventilating, and needed a moment to calm my breathing. “They were trying to fix me. ‘Teach you for being a fucking dyke.’ Why, why did this happen? Why would someone we know do this to me?” I began to repeat “why” over and over as the sobs came back.

                Some hours later, we were on the couch. Lacey had wrapped me up in my favourite blanket, and something mindless was on television. “Lace, I was attacked by a woman.”

                Lacey opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off: “I want to go to church tomorrow.”

                One of my ex’s had converted while we had been dating. That was why we broke up. She couldn’t bear to continue, as she put it, sinning with me. We still talk occasionally, the break up wasn’t rough or mean-spirited, and I thought maybe she could offer some words of support.

                Walking into that building with Lacey on my arm was nerve wracking. This was an old church, a conservative church, and I walked into with my girlfriend who lived with me. Vanessa, my ex, saw us walk in and hurried over to us, smiling at everyone she passed.

                “Hello,” I began to say before getting cut off. “Sam, what the hell are you doing here? You know you can’t just show up here with,“ she sneered at Lacey, “her on your arm. Get out.”

                I sputtered, tried to speak, but nothing was coming out. Lacey tugged on my arm, “Come on Sam, let’s just get out of here.”

                In a stupor, Lacey led me away from the church and to the nearest bus stop. We sat, Lacey’s arms dropped around my shoulder, and waited for the bus.

                “Lace, I think it was Vanessa that attacked me. The hate in her voice today. It sounded just like my attacker. And she didn’t ask what happened to my face.” I started crying again.

                The next day I called the police and told them my suspicions, they promised to look into it. Vanessa was never even brought in. Apparently they called her, asked a couple questions, and that was it. Once they found out she was straight and Christian, they let the matter drop.

                Every time I hear Can You Feel the Love Tonight, all I can feel is her fists hitting my face.  

I am here to listen and speak

Okay, so it's been a long time since I've written anything resembling a parable, so please bear with this one. I feel like it more hits the message right on the head rather gently guiding. Like I said, it's been a while.                 

A man stood on the corner of a great intersection, shouting out his truths for all passing by to hear. He did this every day, and every day people grew more and more annoyed with the man.

                “Can’t you people see what’s going on with the world? It’s falling apart! People are killin’ each other!” He would shout. “Twelve people were killed last night in our city alone! It’s time for things to change!”

                And yet for all his yelling, nothing changed. Every day he went out and yelled, and every day people grew more annoyed, until one day something happened.

                When the man arrived at his corner, he found another already standing there.

                “Who are you? What are you doing? Every day I come to this corner and I try to pull the wool from the people’s eyes!” The man was shaking.

                The stranger smiled, “I am one of the people, and I am here to listen and speak.”

                The man was confused, never before had someone wished to speak with him. “Why? Why would you want to speak with me? No one has ever come to speak with me before.”

                “I came to speak with you simply to ask questions. Every day you come out here and you shout your truths from this corner, and yet it has no effect. How does that make you feel?”

                The man paused. “It makes me upset. I try all I can to make the world better, and yet nothing happens. I do everything and nothing changes!”

                “Are you truly doing everything?”

                “Yes! Of course I am! I put the truth out there, what more could I possibly do?”

                The stranger smiled with sadness in his eyes. “What more could you possibly do? You can lead and teach by your actions. Instead you try to lead and teach by berating and bludgeoning. Whenever has yelling created change better than action?”

                The man was outraged, “How am I not in action? Every day I come out here, and I act! I try, every day I try to change the world by my actions!”

                “What are you actions?”

                “MY ACTIONS? My actions—they’re,” the man was sputtering, and his eyes began to lose their fervour. “My yelling is my action. It’s really not much is it?”

                The stranger reached out and grasped the man’s shoulder. “Yelling by itself is mere noise my friend. Telling people the truth is good, yes, but yelling out the truth from a corner does nothing. Look at all the people. All the cars. They walk over your truths, they drive over your words. Your truth does nothing here because it dies as soon as it leaves your lips.” The stranger smiled sadly, “I was once you, yelling out my truths, forcing my voice to be heard, but it did naught. So one day, with my voice gone from my yelling, I came across a group of youth trying to help a bruised and bloodied friend. Normally I would’ve ignored them, crossed the street and pretended not to see. But I was so tired of not being able to change the world that I stopped and helped these kids. I helped them get their friend to a hospital, and through that action I saved a life. I had finally done something positive in the world. I still go out and talk with people. I still use my words to change the world, but I no longer shout. All my shouting did, was drown itself out.”

                The man had tears forming, “I’ve grown so bitter and resentful of the world. I get mad when I go home because the world isn’t changing faster. But it’s me, isn’t it? I’m the one who isn’t changing? I get mad at all the hate in the world, but all I’m doing is adding to it, aren’t I? I’m magnifying the hate by bringing all this attention to it. Oh God,” the man sunk to his knees. “I’ve been doing this all wrong. I’m not making anything better. Please, help me. Show me how to help others as you have helped me!” But when the man looked up, the stranger was gone, and he was all alone on the corner. 

Seeing Beauty Again

                I used to write stories. Great epics, touching dramas, cute romances, wondrous fairy tales, and terrifying thrillers. Now I just—no, no. That’s not right. The pencil scratches out the words, the eraser long since used up.

                I begin again: I used to write wonders and epics. Fairy Tales and Ghost stories. Now I write bare truths and hidden lies. I smile. This was better. This was more honest. I used to let my imagination guide my words. Hidden glimpses of potential would fuel my words, as they slowly, magically, perfectly, fit together to form sentences, and those sentences into paragraphs, and those onto stories. Now I—what am I now? I pause. Hand frozen hovering over the paper as my mind tries to puzzle out the answer. I have not written a parable, a poem, a story, anything other than unwanted truths in ages. Am I still the writer I once was? Can I still craft a tale that can make all who hear it weep? Or have I become bound to writing only that which triggers a different primal response?

                I used to write the truths people didn’t want to see or hear, but in a way that made people think and reconsider; now I write them in the open. Hmm. That sounds better. Almost poetic.

                I stand and stretch. Pulling at that knot buried deep in my spine. If you’re a writer, you know the one. The one that is always there, pulling at your soul as if it is trying to drag you somewhere you don’t want to go. Like a mother pulling a petulant child towards some hated activity. I steadfastly ignore it; I don’t want to see the truths it tries to make me see. Flexing my tired fingers, I stare out the window. I do this often to remind myself that there is beauty in the world, but with each passing day it becomes harder to convince myself of that. Where there was once life, now ashes float.

                Words once came easy to me. I could sit and write a short story in an hour, given an hour and half I could write a story that moved people, that made people feel what I wanted them to feel. Now it takes me that long to bang out a mediocre paragraph. My soul was once that of a poet. My words sang and danced! They shouted to the very heavens to tempt God! They could paint a picture to rival the works of the masters! And now my soul is buried under a thousand other titles: friend family mentor worker confidante problem solver coach best friend activist freelancer YouTuber journalist. Down near the bottom of this infinite list lays: writer and poet. Two of my greatest loves, sacrificed for what reason?

                I sat and begin to write again. Truths are easier to see when they fly in the face, yet harder to accept. A truth that hits you in the face becomes a nuisance, a truth that you find in the words of a story though? That truth becomes precious. That truth becomes something that you have earned, and through earning it, you protect it.

                I pause and reflect upon my own words. If I constantly hand out the truth for free, why would people care? I can see the evidence of that every day. People are constantly handed truths that they don’t want, and so they ignore them. From smoking to violence, when people are given the truth they ignore it. So why have I started handing out the truth? When did I turn from an artist to a man shouting on the corners? All my own morals, all my own truths, I learned from stories. I learned integrity from Tolkien, I learned perseverance from Rowling, logic from Doyle, I learned how to lead from Kirk and Picard, I learned faith from Herbert. If I learned from stories, why would I try to impart lessons through anything else?

                I have become a mockery unto myself, my pencil writes, I have tossed away the lessons from my past, and like many fools before me, I have tried to attack the ocean of ignorance, instead of bridging it. I know that it doesn’t work, and yet I try. “Surely if I were to throw enough truths down, I will be able to stand upon them and bury the ignorance!” And, like everything that gets thrown into the ocean, the waves merely bury it, never to be seen again.

                There is a tale that the Emperor Caligula once ordered his troops to attack the sea, and then collect seashells as proof of his great victory. Many people laugh at this, and it adds to his legendary levels of crazy—the story is false however. Even Caligula was smart enough to know attacking the sea does nothing. As a student of history, I should’ve recognized that I was making that mistake.

                The sea will endure long past my feeble attempts to bury it, and in my attempts to bury it, it shall consume me and leave me to a watery grave. So is true with my writing. If I continually strike at the ignorance, attempt to bury it with my truths, I shall become buried by the ignorance. But if I bridge it, if I allow people to find the truths for themselves, we can all cross the ignorance safely. Truth is always in the guise of a story, and a good story can change the world.

                I lay my pencil down beside the paper. Words scramble across it in a mad dash, sentences struck out, words left unfinished only to be replaced by others. I stare at the madness in front of me, these scribbles filled with meaning, and I see beauty again.