Culture is something that I think is truly underappreciated. It seeps through every moment of our lives even when we probably don’t realize it. I’m from the Midwestern United States, more specifically the great land of corn: Kansas. The culture and world I grew up in was really polite with incredibly minute and intricate details that one would probably easily miss. We have a very entangled way of interacting, changing from person to person. I didn’t even realize this until I went to California a few years ago. While we have a very labyrinthine system for dealing with really anything, theirs is much more straight-forward. I noticed this especially in conflict. In the Midwest, we’re more naturally passive aggressive, intricately talking about a subject where every word is treated like a live grenade. In California, not so much.
The world was silent as he gazed into her painted brown eyes. Every person around him, drawn to the beautifully detailed sculptures and paintings of landscapes, yet he only wanted to look at her. Her slight smile. Her black hair. Her white knit cap and red scarf. She walked under a starry night, a nebula of colors above. The stars illuminated the world in pink, white, and blue. She walked along a concrete path with the grass and trees, a sea of dark green around her. He wanted to know her. Talk to her about everything. Ask her about her day. He wanted to know her name, her hobbies, her. He looked over at the piece’s information. “A Girl, Wandering - Painted on a starry night when I saw her walk by. I don’t know her but I hope she sees this.” She was real. She was human. She was art.
The only sounds were the soft crunch of my footsteps and the gentle howl of a winter night. The snow fell around me, specks against the dark sky, like stars falling to Earth. It was just me, away from the world, in one of my own. A single streetlight lay near a dark grey bench. I sat down, the chilled air wrapping its frigid arms around me. My vision was obscured as a galaxy encompassed the night. I took a deep breath, enjoying the bitter air.
Adrift in the sea of stars, marooned on another planet. The ineffable desert stretches as mountains stand around it. Strange, contorted cacti and old, rotten trees lie around me. I unsheathe my blade, ready for anything that may come.
A symphony of laughter, yelling, and drunkard conversations swell around the bar. The dim light flickers. The mugs are slammed down as a guffaw encapsulates the room. The author grabs his pen, dipped in ebony ink. A new symphony begins. The piano starts, a single chord breathing as he writes. His sentences long, mellifluous and as full as the sighing chords. The keys hasten as does his hand, running faster, his words blurry, lost beneath the music, his soul lacing every letter. A violin slowly creeps in as he dips his pen, quickly returning to the filling page. The pen dancing as the piano sings. The sweat falling as the violin rises.