sunflowers for days. eyes golden and blazing. silken petals caressing freckles. jumbled words with foresaken sighs. fingertips tracing lines, orange sunsets catching fire to the horizon, clouds parting to reveal secrets, drops of fallen water in your palm, stolen glances, quickened breaths, and with the constellations, comes a blanket of silence.

and she whispers, "will you remember me?"

when we're older, maybe then we'll understand. we'll understand why people sign the dotted lines. why they hire the attorneys. why they leave wedding rings on night stands. why they look at us and say "it's not your fault." why they think it's easier to attend a custody hearing than a funeral. and why sometimes love is never enough. we'll understand the power of words. we'll breathe deep the literature of those before and after us, and we'll understand why faulkner smiles beyond the grave. those drunk actions and sober thoughts will be blurred, and we'll think before we speak. we'll understand how to fight back. how to pull the reins on a life that seems out of control. how to steer a boat away from raging waves but still catch sight of the shore. how to fight for things bigger than greed, bigger than reputations, bigger than pride, and bigger than hateful bullets to the chest. how to stand tall for justice, integrity, and freedom and most importantly, our dreams. we'll understand the ins and outs of a "goodbye." we'll understand how long you should really hold your breath before finally letting go. well understand that sometimes the music says more than we ever could. that when we're looking at the stars, we're staring at our destiny, our fate, our spot in time. we'll understand that time, in fact, doesn't heal very much. we'll understand that we should have remembered the stories our grandfathers told us about vietnam. we'll understand that just when you think it's all come to an end, you see it's only the beginning. when we're older, maybe then we'll understand.

today was so beautiful, and i cannot stop smiling. paying it forward is truly the only way to live.

There was a certain beauty about this man. Some palpable feeling of truth with a tinge of melancholy. He was a simple man with ordinary thoughts, mundane actions, and hardened emotions. Head bent at an angle, furrowed face parallel to the cracked pavement, he was preparing himself.

Life had been great. He worked hard his entire life, and fell in love early. The children were older now, and the little ones called him grandpa. One orthopedic shoe right after the other, he's fighting this fight.

Fists curled, and bony knees shaking, he's crying now. Lips trembling, his glasses slipping down his nose, he continues on.

He never really talked much. A quiet man who knew how to follow rules, except the summer of '49. He had learned a lot of things that summer, but now isn't the time.

He's fighting for things none of us can ever understand. He's holding on to something so real and marvelous that even a brief glimpse would catch your breath in an instant. This little old forgotten man clings to more than the contents of my entire life, and with ragged breaths, he's sobbing now.

And so am I.

What does this all mean? What does it mean when suddenly the stories you've always written, are now becoming mixed with reality? What does it mean when you can't let go of fiction and make believe, and you can't stop pretending long enough to open your eyes; really open them. And you can't separate your life into two separate lists anymore. You don't have this 'would be, should be' side, and you don't have this 'is now, and will always be.' You just have this messy, ink-stained paper full of scrathes and smudges that reads 'everything and nothing at all.'

I've trying to pinpoint the most real thing in my life. Not what it used to be or could be, but what it actually is. And some mornings I have to literally pinch myself to know I'm still here. Just like the Goo Goo Dolls song, I bleed to let me know I'm alive. I have scars on my knees and down my left shin from too many years of soccer, and sometimes I like to run my fingers over the bumps and dents. I remember feeling alive once. I remember how it felt, and I remember how it tastes.

It's this feeling of just getting out of a really hot shower when you ran 4 miles, and you're singing along to aerosmith in the steam, and when you step out, everything is radiant. Your cheeks glow, warm water drips down your back from your tangled hair, and you just sing into your hairbrush because you know that everything is alright.

It's this taste of citrus. This perfect piece of watermelon, or slice of orange. Lips just absorbing succulent summer juices, and when you get the first bite of watermelon, you even close your eyes because it's that wonderful. And you just feel the wind in your hair on the back porch, you listen to your family laughing, and you just never really think that things could end up any different.

He was just a common man, but those common and ordinary men never get remembered. It's the ones that fight back and hold strong for those they love. It's the ones who dare to surpass the hero and become a legend.

I remember this, and close my eyes. The breeze feels just right, and I know things will end up different, but here's to pretending that nothing will ever stray from this moment, this very second because....

because

just because.

dear god,

it's been a long while since we've talked. i have this immense feeling of surrender and resentment for things I'll never understand. it's this constant tug-of-war with myself struggling to make sense of how things work, past decisions, future mistakes, and present consequences.

my mind is already saying goodbye, but my heart is still so enraptured in the beauty before me...

i'm torn.
something very big is about to happen in my life as you well know, and i just....
afghanistan in april. 17 months. picking up my rifle and shooting someone who i never knew. spilling blood of someone with a mother and father, and someone who is probably just as confused as myself. you've given me a strong heart and mind, but do you think i can handle this?

i'm strong. i'm independent. i'm apathetic enough to get me through life, but this? will the memories haunt me for the rest of my life? will i become a completely different person? will i come home?

God, I'm not scared. I'm not scared of most things, and fear has never really been in my vocabulary. I'm not scared of war, I'm not scared of things unknown, and I'm not scared of the things before me. But will I have this constant ache for more?

always.

i've always believed in the power of words, but now i will learn the power of a hand grenade.

please remember me.

i'm well overdue for a miracle.

slapstick.

"I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best could easily be described as 'common decency.' I treated somebody well for a little while, or maybe even for a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in return. Love need not have anything to do with it.

Also: I cannot distinguish between the love I have for people and the love I have for dogs.

When a child, and not watching comedians on film or listening to comedians on the radio, I used to spend a lot of time rolling around on rugs with uncritically affectionate dogs we had.

And I still do a lot of that. The dogs become tired and confused and embarassed long before I do. I could go on forever.

...

Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous.

I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, 'Please--a little less love, and a little more common deceny.'

--Kurt Vonnegut.