A Tale of Two Bodies
It’s always the same experience. Rightly so, it’s ritual – it’s intentioned to be that way. Always the same silence that toes the line of uncomfortable and meditative. My hands are folded in front of me like in prayer and my mind is similarly inwardly focused. Coaches hang around, silent, sometimes occasionally muttering words of advice and reminders of the absolute necessities for enduring the challenges to come. The man in front of me is the only one whose words I regularly understand. He’s in a similar state to my own – rousing himself from his stupor only to impart words of wisdom and return to his task.
Welcome to Cloverleaf Orphanage
According to a study conducted during the First World War, having grown up in a rural area was the best indicator that a soldier would excel in a military setting. To measure the tendency to excel, the study tracked the reported mental health of the soldiers, suicide rates, the likelihood of promotion, likelihood of contracting illnesses, and ability/willingness to perform assigned tasks. It makes sense. Healthier from growing their own foods and eating diverse meals. More used to “roughing it,” waking up early and sleeping later, and more used to the solitude of not knowing many people. There’s just something about those farm boys. Except, that was total bull. The study actually found the opposite. That people from big cities tended to do better. They were more used to being in close proximity to others – having their personal space invaded constantly. They were used to participating in structured behaviors like waiting in lines. They had stronger immune systems from being exposed to more people over their lifetimes.
Home is her. A gentle fire warming our common area into the late hours of the night A stack of wood at its side promising that it will burn forever
It’s been days since I’ve slept. Weeks since I’ve eaten a full meal. Probably months since I’ve had a complex thought. Not a thought about the normal things. Not a thought about the vast nothingness of the bottom of the ocean. Not about the peace that comes with fading into unconsciousness - into sleep. An original, complex thought. A thought about the complexity of a love that I will likely chance upon only once. A thought about the repercussions of the economic prosperity of the country that I live in and abhor with an intensity that threatens to set my soul alight – that threatens to engulf me in flames at any moment.
Four Tips for Creating That Perfect Picture
Have you ever taken the perfect picture, sat back, and just thought, “This is it. This is the picture,” before you ever put it through any editing applications? Before you’ve even touched the white balances, the contrast, the sharpness, it’s just beautiful? Yeah, me neither.
The majority of my life has been populated with events that an unbiased, reasonable spectator would only feel right in characterizing as “painfully mundane.” Not painful because of the magnitude of its “mundane-ness,” but because the norm in my hometown – in Havallia – is pain. Even now, when normalcy has been replaced with oddities, the pain is ever constant. The pain of the past replaced with the knowledge that my death looms overhead because of a little black book.