Sentinel

I stand before a puddle. I can’t tell how deep it is, but I want to explore. I turn my back on it. It’s shunned to wade into the water. There are secrets there that shouldn’t be uncovered, or so the others say. It doesn’t sway me. I see my soul look over my shoulder as I keep my gaze away. I can’t let them know what I plan to do. However, I need to know what exists beneath the depths. To hell with consequences. My curiosity is burning. I need to know. 

With my back turned and my eyes on the world, keeping watch, my soul slips from my skin and dips a toe into the cold black water. I feel the chill and shiver, but I keep my eyes locked. I can’t give away what is happening. I am a statue. I am a sentinel. I am a liar. 

With the stone flesh left on the lip of the puddle I wade into the water letting my astral skin grow accustomed to the temperature. I don’t understand the fear the others have for this water. My feet cannot touch the bottom, but the unknown does not frighten me. I assume that is where the fear comes from. The fear of the unknown. What lurks beneath…what will be uncovered? It fuels my desire to know, instead of pushing me away. 

I give one final glance to the stoic flesh I left behind guarding my excursion into the feared depths. Seeing it stand against the wind I dunk my head. The world above drops away and it’s though I’m in a sea of stars. A warmth replaces the cold and I float. 

Why is there fear of this? I think as my skin tingles. A pulse swims around my limbs and I notice a shudder. Then the feelings start to change. The stars fall away, and colors begin to morph. 

Pressures increase on my lungs and I feel stifled. Voices erupt in anger. Oppressive, violent, accusatory. My heart faints and flutters. 

A shift. 

Weight increases on my shoulders holding me down, pulling me down further into the darkness. I feel my skin start to wither and fade, dissolving into the renewed coldness of the water. New voices. Despair, depression, fear. 

Another shift. 

Elation and a spark of fire in my bosom. Laughter. I feel lifted on a layer of bubbles. Warmth on my skin as if from the sun. 

These shifts push and pull and thrash and swim and crash. Throwing my body up and down, left and right, in and out. A violent chaos of emotions. I feel the link extend and diminish from my flesh left on the lip. A new fear erupts in my body. The fear that I was told of by the others. Not the fear of the unknown, but fear of knowing too much. 

I call out with my being. I scream for the sentinel to retrieve me from the maelstrom of emotion. Sinking and thrashing and fighting against the torrent. I feel the link slipping further and further as the abyss becomes all encompassing. A weight of fear and doubt wraps around my core holding me down. Dragging me further in. 

This was a mistake. Lament and regret erupt in my soul. 

“Why couldn’t I leave well enough alone?” 

“Why did I venture forth with the light of curiosity and not caution?” 

“Why can’t I wake up?” 

I scream and flail as the light from above dwindles. I am lost. The shell of flesh will remain a statue to failure and selfish pride. No one will know, or perhaps they will all know my failure. 

Darkness. Loss of sensation. Silence. All-encompassing silence. 

Nothing. 

The eyes of the sentinel locked in a permanent gaze does not react to the figure in its midst. An arbiter of truth and warning and fear. They cast their eyes upon the flesh frozen now, unblinking, unflinching, unknowing, unfeeling. 

The arbiter touches the frozen flesh, as of stone, and looks upon the dark water beyond. They have no anger at the sight they behold. No emotion at all.  In the depths the faint flicker of an astral vessel blinks and fades unable to break the tension of the water. Forever trapped, forever lost, forever untethered. 

“Why must the bravest forgo warning? Why must the heedless march forth into the unknown? Why do our words fall on deaf ears?” The arbiter brushes the face once more of the stone flesh and turns away. 

The water ripples and falls silent once more. A black glass reflecting nothing. 

It is not strength that drives them to enter the water. It is a weakness. A desire to fill a void and grow whole. They feel they are strong for going against the will of the keepers, they feel they are strong to assuage and dismiss the fears they hear of that place. But it is a simple weakness. It takes strength to forgo temptations. There is no strength or truth or worth to be found in those depths. Only confusion. Only chaos. Only darkness. 

The words are repeated and rehearsed and regurgitated by all those that came before me. I have seen the meadow that leads to the place of which they speak. They do not bar entry. It is against their views to bind the hands and feet with physical means. They simply wish to bar them with words and fears and worries. Letting the ones who hear these words bind themselves. 

I am not bound. I understand the fear they speak of, more than those before me. I have seen the statues, the forgotten flesh left at the lip of the water. Many holes exist in the meadow. All leading to the same depths. Many have their own statues. Left as reminders of what is lost when the fates are tempted. When that knowledge is questioned, when that curiosity is left in control. A field of sentinels guarding from watchful eyes what goes on behind their own backs. A dismissal of fear and a contempt of those words. 

“I am strong. Stronger than they know.” I’m sure is what they said, for I have said it myself. These words have flashed before my own eyes in times of reflection. I am strong. There is no fear of these places, of this journey. There is no fear of the depths. 

“I am not like those before me.” I also assume the others had said. Looking upon their stone faces locked in guarded stoicism I’m not dissuaded to try what they have so readily failed. I look to complete what they have tried. I know I am strong enough to succeed. 

For is it not true that someone must have succeeded? To have seen below the waters to return and warn the others of its power? Or have the statues always been the only guide for the uncertainty of the world below? 

I must know. It burns in my heart and my mind to know and to shine a light upon that truth, whatever it may be. 

In my time of leisure, when we are left to our own devices, I study those like me, left before me only as statues. I study their stances, their eyes, their faces. Looking for some clue as to their failure and how best to overcome it. All the places I come upon with a sentinel I note their gaze, locked in perpetuity towards the entrance of the meadow. They stand in lookout for anyone who might come to dissuade them, though that never comes. Their bodies are tense, ready to flee at the first sign of fear or failure but not an inch is budged. They are locked in a stance of readiness and alertness yet unmoved by the feelings from below. The waters at their backs are silent, unmoving, devoid of ripples from wind or fish or currents beneath. They are as of glass, but with a touch of the finger, which I have done in the past, they move and react. It is indeed water, or some facsimile of that substance. 

My inquires return only one solution to this, one difference that I can ascertain, one flaw that I can overcome. The flaw of the blind eyes. 

Each one, each searcher of truth failed in the same task. Keeping their eyes on their own souls. So wrought with fear, and truly insecure of their own perceived strength, they looked for those that would stop them, instead of knowing they couldn’t be stopped. That singular fear crippled them all. The fear of retaliation for their curiosity, the fear of reproach, the ultimate fear of failing in their endeavor. 

I must assuage that fear in myself. For if it was present in them, which I’m most assuredly sure it was, then it must also then be in me. A fear to look away from my quarry and fearfully stand guard of my transgressions, instead of giving in and accepting my own strength. 

I have a plan that I hope to carry out soon enough. In a few days time I will venture to my own entrance to the depths and make my journey. I will venture forth to the unknown that has taken so many of my brethren before me and I intend to return. 

In the morning light, with the warmth of the sun on my back I walk boldly past the eyes of those around me. They know what burns in my soul, they know I am like the others. They’ve known as long as I’ve known. The mark of the sentinel is pressed upon my flesh but it is not a mark of restraint. It is a marker of identity. They do not share this mark, having marks of their own. We each wear them proudly. 

With the eyes of those around me I march with purpose towards the meadow. The meadow only those like me venture into. No words befall me from the others. No contempt, no warnings, no shouts of anger, no pleas to stop, no cheers in reassurance. There are only their eyes. I welcome them for I am strong. I am stronger than those before me. I will return. 

The meadow is green and full of life. Greenery greets me as I trod my path through the grasses and past the statues and blocked holes. Faces of those I’ve never met, names I’ve never heard spoken, lives I’ve never felt, surround me in the faces of the sentinels. My brethren, my kin. We live a life of solitude and die in the same way. Doing what the others dare not. Going where they fear not. Learning what they wish not. Sentinels are alone yet I am not alone. I am among them and they are among me as I press my way forward. 

This is my passage in life. It was always meant to be. A sentinel will always find their way to the meadow. And now it is my time. I step past the final statue, look longingly on the beauty in their stoicism and give them one passing touch in solidarity. Our paths are similar, but they will diverge at this point. 

“I will return.” I whisper as the pool of black glass stares up at me. Then I feel it. The urge to turn my back on it and face towards the entrance. To stand in guard of what I plan to do. I was sure that with knowing the failing the urge would not surface but I am wrong. My feet turn against my will and my back faces the water. 

“No.” I whisper but I feel something stir in my body. My astral skin starts to take form. 

“No.” I repeat. I feel the tension grow as the soul in my skin starts to reach out towards the water. 

“No!” the form retreats and I step away from the water. I am strong. I am not weak. I am not afraid. I will return. I say in my mind as I force my feet to walk. 

Once I’m far enough away the tension subsides. I take in a breath and look once again upon the dark water. I am not afraid. I am not weak. I am strong. I repeat as I take one step forward. As I inch closer I feel the urge return to spin my body, to become the sentinel, to be the guard, but I resist. This is the failing I must overcome, I must not look away from the unknown and only grasp it with my soul. I must keep my eyes locked on that which I want. There is no reason to fear. 

I pull my feet to the edge, my toes dangle and I crouch. I am close to the water and it does not move. The urge to turn and see what is coming for me from the entrance of the meadow feels like an arm grasping in the dark attempting to whip me around and put me in my place. 

I will it away. I clench my teeth and coax my astral skin to form. I will not look away. The first inklings of the skin start to emerge. It shines in the morning light. A veil of existence floating on the breeze slowly taking form. I ball my fists forcing my mind to keep concentrated on the task at hand. The feeling to stand guard never subsiding. I force it back again and again. 

“I am strong.” I say through gritted teeth. The veil becomes more cohesive, more vibrant and real, it takes on new form as I will it into existence. It will not slip away from me. I will keep it tethered. 

The yeaning of curiosity erupts as the skin gets closer and closer to the edge of the water. It seems to shimmer, casting a new light on the darkness below. Before it plunges beneath the depths my eyes snap open and I thrust my own arm in with it. The link will not be severed. 

The astral form holds onto my fingers as a child holds onto a parent. Tightly does it wrap, the fear that seemed invisible is apparent. The astral form knows that it is in a place of great power and is afraid of being lost in it. My flesh above feels this fear pulsing. My eyes do not blink, my mind does not waiver. I will not fail. 

The waves start to ripple as the current increases below the rim. Through my astral skin I can feel the waves of chaotic emotion. The anger, the sadness, the elation, the fear. They come in waves, ripping and tearing and flowing and floating. Sending my astral skin up and down and through and out. The grasp on my fingers is tight and unwavering. I do not look away. 

I hear the astral skin scream for me. It longs to be returned to the surface. It fights and squirms and kicks and screams. It’s looking for its way up back towards the light. I feel the fear and the pain. The ebb and the flow of each new emotion. Each new contact with the chaos below. I am overwhelmed but I am strong. I push up from the ground with weak legs and tug on the skin beneath the waters. The darkness does not want to let go. I fight with it, I tear at it and my arm slowly emerges from the depths. A glimmer of light, my skin beneath the void, becomes known once again. 

“I am strong.” I am strong. “I am not weak.” I am not weak. “I am strong.” I am strong. “I will return.” I will return!

With a violent tug I fall away from the hole and I feel my astral skin retreat to its home in my flesh. I look upon the water and see its ripples slowly begin to wane. The calm returns to its face as all traces of my encounter fade away.

My breathing calms as the wind wraps around me. The meadow erupts in perceived congratulations to my success. I am alive. I am not a statue. I am no longer afraid. 

Though, I am exhausted. I close my eyes and rest. I must let my mind, body, and soul recover from all that I encountered. 

A new day breaks and the sun hits my face anew. I have slept through a day and a night on the meadow floor. The world has settled inside and outside. I feel new. I feel different. 

I stand and gaze again upon the hole where the water was and view that it has retreated. The water is gone. I look from sentinel to sentinel and see their posts are also empty at their backs. They stand before nothing, guarding nothing. I do not weep for them. I do not react. There is a clarity I cannot describe at the sight but a clarity nonetheless. 

I walk past them saying nothing but bowing my head as I pass each face locked in perpetual guard from the fear in their hearts. I hope with the water now gone their souls can rest. 

From the meadow I emerge, the wind carrying my feet back towards the others. This time their reactions burst forth in a torrent reminiscent of the waters beyond. Happiness at my return, sadness for the loss of those before me, anger at themselves for being weak. Joy, contempt, depression. All colors that I had witnessed below the depths have manifest in the ones around me. Then a calm washes over the mass as the arbiter steps forth. 

A hand is placed upon my cheek and tears well in the eyes before me. No words need be spoken between us. A simple link is formed. 

You are strong.

I am strong.

I waded into the depths of emotion and came out with my head above water. I did not shy away from the chaos and fear. And for that my soul is now whole. Now the others are whole. To grasp onto the depths of oneself I was able to restore that which was lost. Understanding, compassion, and a willingness to expression. 

I am a sentinel, not for my guarding of those emotions but for carrying them back home to where they belong. 

I am strong. I am not weak. I am a Sentinel. 

Crystalline

Harry looked down at his watch again, he just remembered that he was close to the border of the time zone and was worried that he had to adjust it. It was an old Casio and needed to be wound manually to fix the time or the day if they were wrong. He looked around his surroundings, the mostly empty parking lot of Oregon State and attempted to find a clock or neon sign with the time to get his bearings. He hadn't been waiting long for her car to show up, it was only five minutes, but he was worried that he was late. On driving up here he completely forgot that the time might change. As he spun checking the buildings, looking for a bank, they usually had flashing signs with the time and the temperature, he caught the eyes of a blonde woman walking towards him. In an instant his fear of being late was eclipsed by the welling excitement in his chest. Her bright eyes flashed under black frames and a smile emerged on her lips. She moved the hair from her face as she quickened her pace to bridge the gap between them in the empty lot. When their eyes met it transported Harry to a time months ago, when last they met, and shared a similar moment. He had lost her in a crowded room and scanned the faces to find her again. At the moment he resigned defeat he found her looking for him as well and their eyes met across the room. His heart skipped and his breath quickened. Those beautiful eyes were fixed on him.

In the parking lot they shared greetings and an embrace. Delilah pushed herself away, arms length but kept her hands on Harry's arms as they stood and stared at each other catching up. The wind picked up and Delilah told him to get into her car, to shelter from the cold and to start their day. She had a whole host of things planned for them now that they were together. Harry didn't worry about the time again after that, and didn't look at his watch again the whole time they were together. In her car he was too transfixed on her. Nothing had changed about her in the time they had spent before, except she had celebrated a birthday. They talked about this and that but the subject didn't matter, he was just happy to be in her presence after so long. She shared this sentiment as well, saying "I missed this", and smiling.

He too had missed this, he had missed her...

Snapshot

It was an almost moldy taste in his mouth now. How, he wondered, could two different cups of coffee differ so much in quality? Had he made it with the last of his own stash instead of sneaking some of his roommates would he still be dissatisfied? Perhaps its the karma of having "borrowed" some from her. He took another sip and grimaced, forcing himself to swallow, telling himself he needed the caffeine to function. He felt his left eyelid droop as he suffered through the lukewarm liquid. He was sitting silently at the small dining room table attempting to gain some warmth from the liquid and preserve what was left from his bed still stuck to his skin, but the cold was wicking it away rapidly. He felt the chill in his fingers and toes and scoffed at the faint idea of turning the heater on. He couldn't afford it, he'd just have to suffer.

It had been three months since he had felt any sense of warmth for more than fleeting moment in the mornings. He had tried to prepare himself for the winter that was now upon him but it's hard to prepare for a Montana winter when you're used to the heat of Florida. He had to stop himself from checking the weather back there as the snow fell silently outside, as to insulate himself from the regret of moving up here. The pangs were small though since in his mind he knew he had made the right choice. He couldn't tell you where the desire came from but he had really wanted this, even yearned for a chance to escape to the uncharted wilderness of northern Montana and leave the bayous and beaches of Florida behind. Sitting now, crippled by sleepiness and the encroaching cold he thought back to the first time he saw something that resembled the world right outside his window. When he was a child, home sick from school, with his grandmother he saw an episode of Painting with Bob Ross. Ross was painting with a limited pallette for a colorblind viewer or so he described and subsequently painted a snow covered masterpiece not unlike the view Ryan saw from his apartment now. That image had stuck with him and his fascination with the beauty of the snow covered world drew him farther and farther from home.

It was rough going at first but now he was mostly settled. The toll of major life changes came in waves over him as the days had passed. He had imagined things being certain ways, circumstances setting up certain outcomes, but those outcomes hadn't come. Now, sitting at this table in the lingering cold he had to reevaluate things and shift his focus.

Justified

On Wednesday nights a pressure tends to build behind the eyes. Marcus Garret rubs his temples and tries to concentrate on the screen before him but the colors distort as the pain increases, the blood vessels constricting, cutting off blood flow to his eyes and brain. It's been happening like this for the past few months now, but he's too stubborn to make a doctors appointment. In fact he hadn't had a doctor in three years, since his last one "retired". He scoffed at the idea of how many times that doctor probably didn't give two shits about him as he sat on the paper liner in the cold room. The thought of cold sent a new pulse of pain through his skull and he let out a sharp breath. He looked around the floor, over the tops of desks to see if his release of contempt startled anyone from their silent repose, non stirred. The calendar attached to his desk with a magnet that still partially said, "Smile Everyday!" with a worn face taunted him. He hadn't marked it for the past week, neglecting giving it his time or attention until now. To occupy himself, since the pain in his head made it hard to stare at the computer screen for another second, Marcus withdrew a pen and placed X's on the past four days. Only two more days until the weekend, only two more days...

Thanks, I guess

"A kid walked by me today and said I had cool shoes."
"Yea?"
"It was just weird to me. I've been getting a lot of random compliments from random people lately. Shit like that baffles me."
"Why does it baffle you?"
"Because I've never been one to A. get compliments on menial things and B. to get them from utter strangers or even acquaintances."
"It's not that strange. You're just drawing to much attention to it. Putting mean where meaning doesn't exist."
"Well that's a given but aside from the kid, there have been times when women compliment me and the only recourse I can take is thinking they are being flirty."
"That's not unheard of, what's your point?"
"No point, just voicing my confusion."
"So people find you attractive and want to compliment you? What's the problem?"
"Oh no problem, again I'm just not used to it."
"What did she say?"
"Who?"
"The girl who complimented you."
"Oh, well a few years ago a girl at the checkout line said, 'I like your shirt.' I was wearing some band shirt or something."
"What did you say back?"
"I was so thrown off by it, since it's such a random thing to say, especially towards me, I just said I liked her shoes. The other one, more recently, I was leaving work and a woman I know called from her desk at the back of her row saying 'I like your jacket.' I simply said thanks and went to the stairs."
"Was it a nice coat?"
"See that's the thing, no. It's an old shrunken hoodie. I'm assuming she said it because it had a band name on it but still it's not a good jacket."
"Maybe they were both just trying to find a way to start a conversation."
"Yea probably but I'm so inept and the setting was so weird that I was blindsided by it. I've never been one to take compliments well. And even more so when they come from attractive women."
"Because you don't think you're desirable?"
"Well yea, I've always been that way though. Things have changed yes but I still feel like I'm not that desirable, at least to be complimented randomly."
"Perhaps you need to take a chance and strike up a conversation with one of them, maybe this more recent one?"
"Impossible."
"How so?"
"We work together, she dated one of my friends. I don't think it'd be fruitful."
"You have a very defeatist attitude."
"You say defeatist, I say realistic. You know I'm not one to start something if I think it'll fail outright."
"I suppose. Do end up getting yourself in over your head once it shows signs of failing?"
"Yes...sad to say. I think my biggest issue is battling between resolving to stay alone for my mental health or attempting to being something and failing again. That's why these seemingly innocuous compliments baffle me so. I'm always the one to initiate interest not the other way around. I don't know how to handle it without either bumbling or coming off as cold."
"Sometimes that can't be helped."
"You're not wrong."
"Fasten your seat belts and remain seated for the flight. We are preparing for liftoff."
"How long is this flight again?"
"Nine hours."
"Right...what do you know about Nihilism?"

Lunar Kiss

Late one night I found myself with an urge to walk in the dark and be among it in its splendor. Some nights I'd get this urge to escape the artificial light and bask in the quiet and solitude of the dark outside my home and just feel one with the universe for a split second before a rustle in the underbrush not too far away caused an instinctual fright that woke me from my meditation and sent me back inside to the safety of my walls.

This night however I was sadly not greeted by the darkness as a misty cascade of light fell all around me. I looked up and it was the enormous presence of the moon bearing down on me. White and ghost like behind the faint clouds, it formed a halo and sent soft light all around my feet and the quiet sleeping world around me. In that instant I saw a shooting star cross the face of the moon and i felt another instinct arise, not fear but a yearning to make a wish as we do as children at the sight of a shooting star. But in that instance I compared the fleeting existence of the shooting star with its streak of light to the enormity of the moon that sat, at what felt arms length, from my face. I turned my attention from the slash of light, now completely faded having been engulfed by the atmosphere and instead directed my wish to the face of the moon. The moon, the silent companion of Earth, ever hanging just out of reach but always there, even when obscured. It's presence never interrupted, never fleeting, a true entity in which to bestow a celestial wish upon. Unlike the pallid rocks flung haphazardly through space it was fixed and ever watchful of the citizens of its companion. A silent custodian.

I looked longingly at the white ghost and felt a tear come on as the realization of the moon's power and strength and silence overcame me in that moment. I let the wish leave my lips and felt a rush of power overcome my soul as the wind whipped up past me and towards the moon. The first wish, on an express track to the moon, had been sent. I felt that this wish, of happiness, of family, and of love, would finally come true now that I had sent it to be held by the correct body, floating ever so daintily above my head. I nodded towards the moon as the feeling subsided and the light was overcome by the clouds rolling in from the west.

I made a wish upon the moon and I know that wish will come true.

All I've Lost

All my thoughts wither away as soon as they are borne. A contagion of thought is killed by the antidote of wistful thinking patterns. As the wind blows and deteriorates the sand dune ever so slightly so does my mind brush away the advent of thoughts. Images blur and the sounds of old voices distort and go mute. I can't recall long enough to feel the passion in my chest or the pain in shame. A double edged sword. To lose the basis of all feeling only to still feel regret in losing it all. Each failed grasp into the dark to pull a thread back into the light and tie it lovingly in a bow to my soul is met with failure. 

To fail at recalling a memory, a fleeting memory, is the worst torture. You feel it on the tip of your tongue, standing somewhere in the grove of your mind swaying as the wind blows. You fall apart as the fringes start to fray and the kindled flame starts to fade. Who are we without it? A hollow shell. A husk. An empty vessel. 

What can rekindle the flame? If noticed early enough, any  jolt from the powerful sense that is love can ignite it. In the failing I yearn for someone to enter and stoke the fire. To sweep away the old ash, that coats every corner and start anew. It's all I wish for, as the wishes start to fade from me.