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year 2156

i.
we sit on this breaking balcony, watching
the sky turns itself inside out, pounding
out a funeral march (endless, endless)
this downpour that would have noah
cowering in fear, but he is dead —
more than we can say, for now.
if i had an ark, not even the rising oceans
could have driven us from home
you ask me if i miss the sea
i say maybe, sometimes

ii.
we sleep on top of thin covers, listening
to the breathing of six strangers –
homeless, like us
before we blew north with the rain
(this hell, this crowded wasteland)
your eyes are in the past,
staying indoors to survive the heat.
i ask if you miss the flames of your old home
you close your eyes so i can no longer see
the things you have lost
and say not really

iii.
we lean against chain linked fences, waiting
as the sagging people pour from buses,
like smoke from a bonfire (too dry, too easily catching)
they come like us – escape from the sea
escape from the sun
you ask me if they realize
what we were too late to learn
i notice their hopeful eyes and upturned lips
and shake my head
no, i say, not yet

infp

I honestly don't even have a point to this post. I don't know, I guess this is gonna be fairly vent-ish, so buckle up if you plan on sticking around.

I have an intense fear of mediocrity. I feel like I probably share that sentiment with a lot of people, but I have no way of knowing who shares my thought process behind it all. In summary, it's basically just that there's this prick of frustration in the back of my mind anytime someone says a variation of "everyone goes through that" or "that's quite common". And I know it's meant to be a form of consolation, like you aren't alone, don't feel alone. But honestly it just makes me feel worse. And don't get me wrong, I hate this about myself, but I can't stand being grouped in with the average. This probably has something to do with the fact that being average is one of my deepest fears for no apparent reason that I can trace.

(honestly I can't tell how much of this is digression and how much of it is actually coherent, so bear with me)

But yeah, so my brain latches onto anything anyone says that could set me apart from my peers or makes me "special" in some way. (I've also gotten in the habit of catching myself at this and immediately writing it off as an untrue statement so I don't get too self-centered, so there's always this tug-of-war game being played and I don't even know who to believe anymore.)

I do have a fairly solid example of my insecurities of being outshone though. My sister. She's 7 years younger than me, and, like, gosh I don't know how to say this without sounding ridiculously childish...she's just so much better than I am. She got the physical genes I would kill to have (tall and thin instead of short and stocky), she's adorable and has been her whole life (I've just been dragged from awkward phase to awkward phase), she goes to The Montessori Academy (rah rah public school for me), and she's so much smarter than me and is going to end up being like valedictorian or something, she has friends (???I've always had the hardest time getting friends, they never stuck around, and I feel like I'm always annoying people???), and I feel like if she gets the same teachers I had they'll like her more and think she's smarter than me. I guess if I were more secure in my self-worth or whatever it wouldn't bother me so much, but I hate it. And my mom always says stuff about other people's successes not diminishing my own, but for some reason I can't internalize that. It feels sort of like the weak way out. Like, hey So-and-so won, but that doesn't mean that you got dead last!!! I don't know.

I just. I just want to represent a superlative of some sort. I'm prettyish and smartish and funnyish and dancerish and talentedish and goodish at writing. Who knows why I care so much about being sub-par.

Oh! Another great example of my ridiculous insecurities and need for other people to not be obviously better than me. I had my mom do the Meyers-Briggs personality test thing, and my sister ended up doing it as well. For those of you who don't know, the Meyers-Briggs thing has 16 personality types (16personalities.com if you're curious) like ENTP and ISFJ and stuff, and on that website they're all labeled things like "the architect" and "the mediator". So my mom comes to my door to tell me what her result was and my sister comes up behind her and goes "I got The Protagonist! I'm the main character!"

And I hate myself for this, but it hurt. Like, it hurt to hear her say that. ENFJ's (the protagonist) are a ridiculously small portion of the population, and they're charismatic and people love them and they're natural leaders and great at making friends and all the great things you can think of. Essentially, they're Cooler Than You™. I guess in my mind "small % of population = unique = important = special" and it's not me. And I know personalities aren't a competition, but I just wish I were some weird rare personality that people love and whatever. INFP's are cool, don't get me wrong, and so are all the others, but the protagonist? Really? In everyone's mind they're their own main character. It's your life story, and it's about you, of course it is. But I always feel like I'm that unimportant side-character who'll never amount to much.

I! am! so! scared! of! never! amounting! to! anything! special!

And if I'm not special, then what are my chances of getting into the college I want? or getting the scholarships I need? or getting to travel and get a cool job that I enjoy? or having some adorable romance? of ever making legit friends? We can't all be success stories. We can't all be lucky or special or loved or noticed.

I think the reason it hurts so much is because I'm in the process of lying to myself, of telling myself that it will turn out and that I am special in some way, when really I'm just like the next guy. I'm going to go to some college and get some job and get married to some guy and live some average life and die somewhere and never be remembered by anyone. Because I'm just some girl with average talent and average intelligence and average luck. We can't all be Cinderella. Some of us have to be those nameless girls from town who didn't go to the ball and didn't fit the shoe and were never spoken of again because, as we all know, stories prefers those who are different and not those who blend in.

I'm trying to figure out if these thought patterns are the kind of Depression Warning Signs™ my counselor told me to watch out for. I don't think so; it's probably just a mood swing. But hey! Stay turned to find out!!!

vistalis

          It hardly matters now the reasons I was sent to the courts of Vistalis, as I have gladly since then retired from the business of politics. However, in light of recent events—the details of which I assume you have heard by one way or another—I shall endeavor to recount that time which has haunted me many an hour since my departure in the late spring of this previous year.
          The castle of Vistalis was a magnificent structure as I recall it, surely constructed to inspire awe in the hearts of visiting dignitaries and ambassadors, though predating and following my stay there it has done little entertaining for outside guests. The blackened gates of curling wrought iron towered above me as the footman guided me up the long drive, where I found myself in the company of fancifully carved bushes—here, a ten-foot griffin, while by that fountain loomed a creature akin to a giant leopard—and overflowing flower beds bursting with color, all immaculately kept. The only living creature that I could see—excusing myself and the footman—was an exceptionally large and exceptionally old bloodhound sprawled across the front steps, his deep red fur shining dully in the morning light. When we passed, he raised his great wrinkled head to watch me intently with sagging bloodshot eyes. I was never made aware of the beast’s name while I remained at the castle, but I am convinced I should have hated him regardless of any title he responded to, for the footman identified him as the queen’s personal bloodhound. He was loyal to her and her alone, and I was most resentful of his valued position in the castle.
          Inside, it was quite easy to be overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. I craned my neck to the vaulted ceiling; the gold ribs lacing across it sloping down to melt into the columns engraved with various geometric designs. Every breath I drew seemed to live on forever, echoing out of every crevice and off every stained glass window, of which there were many; a few pictured late kings and queens of the past, while still others depicted tinted symbols and glyphs I could not comprehend—the intricacies of such glasswork was astounding. I was lead down a series of maze-like hallways, the footman murmuring explanations as we passed faded tapestries and murals, gesturing to each masterpiece in turn. The place could only be described as unapologetically beautiful; lovely in every sense of the word. I will admit I was so distracted by the lavish surroundings that I very nearly forget the purpose of my visit until my chest hit the shoulder of my guide, who had come to an abrupt halt in front of a large and polished oak door carved to bear coiling and twisting vines and flowers—the metal plaque above it held the inscription vivre pour l'amitié et par la loyauté.* My companion rapped sharply against the door, and a few moments later both oaken slabs were pulled inward. The room revealed was small without being cramped. The ceiling and walls were draped in heavy tapestries reminiscent of the sky at dusk; smokey oranges and yellows blended seamlessly with the deep purples and indigos that hung in thick folds about the edges of the room. In the center of the chamber the yellows and golds appeared to glow about the woman settled in the ornate throne.
          I had heard of this sad and beautiful queen previously in my political, and indeed human, career, but failed to understand why she was labeled such until that moment. She was wrapped in black silks; a single dark gem amidst the glowing sunset. Her skin was pale as moonlight pulled from the sky and her ebony hair darker than even the silks of her gown; the length of her neck was slender and graceful beneath a perfectly proportioned face—every feature was surely deserving of a person’s full attention—but the most captivating part of her face was her eyes—the eyes! Those deep liquid jewels hung in her moonlit face beneath the heavy lids. I could not imagine a more perfect creature, and yet there was a melancholic aura to her presence; something profoundly sad about her for someone so young. She thanked me for travelling so far to represent my king and country in her courts—I must confess I’ve no idea what my response was, as her low voice had me just as enraptured as her lovely face—and when she dismissed me to my rooms I barely cast an eye toward the surroundings which I had previously found so splendid; she was the solitary subject of my thoughts from that moment on.
          In the weeks following I blush to confess my feelings toward her bloomed into irrefutable love—despite my not being allowed to see her for any reason without her summons. I could hardly sleep at night without the thought of her midnight hair falling just so about her straight shoulders, could barely eat without thinking of the perfect slope of her scarlet lips and the glimmer of her ivory teeth placed just as they should be in her angelic face. On occasions where my fantasies urged me to leave the confines of my rooms to run to her, I found that dreaded bloodhound blocking my path. He took to lying at my door day and night, watching me with those eyes that I am sure the devil himself could not rival in fiery hatred. For the duration of everyday—with the exception of meals, when I would be brought down to the kitchens to eat— that filthy animal lounged across my threshold, pressed so close to my door that I could hear his steady heartbeat through the wood if I pressed my ear against it; and all the night the beast scratched at my chamber door with alarming persistence. His bloodshot eyes tormented me in slumber as well as in consciousness; the low whine of his throat buzzed in my ears like a fly I could not shake.
          I took to pacing, doubtful imaginings clawing their way into my heart and mind. Why hadn’t my queen sent for me while I paced, waiting, in my chambers? Surely she knew of my love for her and felt the same, but oh! how I longed to see her eyes!—To but behold those lovely liquid spheres of the night, to cure the sadness hidden in their depths! And the only thing standing between her and me was the dog—that beast! How he reveled in keeping me from my lovely queen. Over many long days I became convinced of his plot to keep me there forever, and over many days more I realised that surely he would do no such thing without the queen’s orders, as the footman assured me the dog answered to her alone—she intended to keep me there forever with nothing but my own thoughts and the scratching of the bloodhound for company! Words cannot describe my despair at this revelation, for my angel had betrayed me to the demon I hated most of all.
          By the time I was finally called upon again to go before the queen, rage and betrayal had consumed my heart to the point that I was in quite a murderous rage. I kept my silver dagger hidden in the folds of my cloak during my passage with the footman to her throne room, and still I kept the blade out of sight as the oak doors swung open to reveal the queen, more beautiful and sad than ever. I avoided looking into her eyes, and when she requested her guards leave us alone in the room it felt like a sign of some sort that I should kill this deceitful angel for her crimes. The doors swung shut with finality, and I barely spared a breath before plunging the dagger into her perfect breast, drawing a flow of deep scarlet blood that stained her skin like wine across a tablecloth while falling invisible onto her already dark silks. As she slumped into the throne her eyes found mine, and I saw that they were now aged and bloodshot, accusing me of murder from beyond the grave. I recoiled, leaving the hilt of the knife protruding from the sheath of her chest, the thoughts of how to escape after killing the Queen of Vistalis suddenly tearing through my mind. What was I to do with the body? hide it? simply hope to get away before she was discovered? The eyes of the bloodhound stared up at me from beneath her ivory brow, and I heard a scratching at the door—imagine my anger at the beast coming to find his dead master! She was his in life but mine in death, and yet the scratching continued—as if he had any claim to her now! I pulled the blade from her breast and sunk it into one of those beastly eyes, hoping to cut any part of the bloodhound from her; he surely had corrupted her feelings toward me while she was yet living, and to leave any trace of him in her now would be a sin surely punishable by death and Hell. I ignored the clawing and whining at the door for just long enough to carve the other aged eye—that abomination!—from her corpse. The door finally burst open, and when the guards rushed me I used the bloody knife to slay them as well. As I ran from the chamber and out to the front hall, the only sound chasing me was the clacking of the bloodhound’s claws against stone.
          I emerged into the evening air just as dusk was spinning its fading colors across the sky. The bush menagerie along the lane loomed over me in fearsome silhouettes as I dashed for the gates, two guards pushing them closed for the night. I could hear the beast’s heartbeat in his pursuit, angry and focused; it cut through the air louder than my footfalls. I slipped through the gates just before they clanged shut and coughed out a startled laugh—I had escaped! The scarlet sun kissed the horizon, and I turned to see the beast howling just beyond the gates—and every inch of me was frozen at the atrocious sight—the queen’s dark liquid eyes staring at me from his sagging face.

*live for friendship and by loyalty

This was a pistache written off the writing style and themes of Edgar Allen Poe.