letter to robert frost.

I have never seen some of my friends cry, friends that I've known since adolescence. This is, of course, excluding my actor friends. These are people who were my friends during that pleasant period throughout college. Those friends who weren't friends during high school but found their way to you when they thought they knew who they were. I have watched them slightly crumble at the loss of adolescence, that vague time in your life where you step into the real world and after a year or so (a tear or more) come to that realization that you do not know who you are. They, like myself, have become terribly confused and lost within the person they were so sure they were. At this time, they realize emotional control is at an all time low. So, they let their friends, myself, into that vulnerable "Do Not Enter" zone and allow themselves to cry. It is not a battle lost, but it has allowed them to display their humanity to those they consider close. And they have gained a stronger bond between myself and their pain through an empathy at its peak. Perhaps experiences are different but stem from the same frustration and that, Robert, has made all the difference. Not the road less traveled (yet), because in our youth, we love to believe that is the road we all on. But, we are all on the same detour to both roads- the one chosen for us and the one we eventually may choose for ourselves. I can hope, as I watch the sorrow leave their body through tear drops, that they (and myself) choose the road they chose for themselves. And we can travel together on the one with fewer footprints because at least we could say we were among friends.

paris.

i am normally quickly frustrated in a country which i do not speak the language.

this did not happen in france.

i'll be back.

lemon chronicles

a homeless man wandered into our car today. i say homeless with quotes- his story is he needs change to buy a metro card home. hes getting off at 110th to feed his little sister at her shelter. he needs the card for a lift back to his own shelter. daniel gives him money and as the train pulls out i say, "give another homeless man money and we'll be homeless."

gone.

the only draft i've ever revisited is gone into cyber space. you would have thought the first time facebook failed would have been warning enough. of course not, this time- the one work i re-edit over and over and over was kept in the notes section of a social networking site. You see man, that's the problem with me. I write these things for god knows who to see only for it to evaporate into a million little invisible numbers. i thought of my draft today- i felt like i was floating on a mattress on the middle of the ocean. the sun was beaming down, it felt lovely on my skin- and i wasn't expected to open my eyes being that the shine was just too strong. but the best thing about it was i could feel the water beneath me, holding me up. the waves aren't strong- where i am, they are just beginning. i am floating on the birth of a wave, many waves in fact. and they go up and down - up and down. some more higher than others but always down in the end. then i realize that orange yellow reflection isn't the sun- but light from a incandesant bulb within the small lamp that sits on the table besides me. and the sky is just a white ceiling with a few left over christmas decorations hanging. i start to cry.