Something More Important

Sometimes it's just the fact that paper is contacting the pen, and the ballpoint just glides across the starched whiteness. Or perhaps it's the blissful nearly silent room that I am just able to think. And just sometimes, it makes me wonder of the things that I have and never appreciated.

As I look through my old works, old rumpled notebooks that are covered in slanted hastily scrawled writing, I can't help but think, did I write that? It's hard to believe, that at certain times I can come up with such things. And then there are those times when I can't help but wonder where the heck the monstrosity came from.

But I came across a writing I did from April 9th, 2012, that made me stop and think. I remember being ashamed of it, wondering whether or not I had the guts to hand in to my teacher. Looking back at it now, it wasn't terrible I was just overthinking things. That piece I had done was something I was afraid of showing, something I wanted to keep hidden for years upon years. A secret that I wanted to hide because of fear. But now I know I held on to it for too long, something that already withered away because it was the past, something that should be remembered, but not clutched and held together by strands of ink. Don't get me wrong, I want to remember it; I had learned so many things from that one thing, but it was time to let it go.

Looking at old photos and memories isn't just something to pass away. It's like taking the time to stop and look out at the changing trees this October 14, 2012. To just stop and observe, standing there in the crisp and gentle breezes of the unnaturally chilly Maryland weather. It is like walking over the rich fallen ruby and golden leaves, listening to the solid crackle of them underfoot. It reminds you of what you like, smelling the cold earth of morning frost, watching the sun gather itself up every morning as I make my way to my bus stop.

It's just flipping through the worn, yellowing pages of my bent spiral notebooks that I realize that I have attempted so many things, but have only captured the superficial things. I tried so hard, so many times to be what another writer is like. I didn't think of what I wanted to write about, it was more about pleasing people. When I look through the poems and the stories that I have written and posted, I realize what I haven't done, but rather, what I've tried to do over and over again, never realizing that sometimes, things just get down right old.

And it was just today, I had someone knock on the door and tell me what he and his family was looking for. I was definitely skeptical of what they were asking for at first; I had believed that it was a solicitor. But no, it was something worth sympathy. I asked myself five minutes after, trying to ask myself what I would do in his case. Would I be knocking on the doors of this neighborhood? What would have been his response if I had given something to help his cause? What if… what if… what if…?

It was then I remembered my father telling me about that one story about a monk being able to appreciate something just like a simple cup of water.

"You need to be able to appreciate the simple things in life," my father said to me, dressed in flannel pants and a brick-red polo. "That is a part of the idea, K.I.S.S: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Sometimes complicated isn't good. Being able to appreciate the simple things in life can lead to happiness."

As a teenager and a human with the ability to feel and want, I realize that I do ask constantly for things I DON'T need. I ask myself, have I stopped to think, stand outside without any real purpose? Have I just stood there, and watch in awe as an owl flies low enough to touch the ground, light brown wing tips stretched out to its fullest to rise up and drift into the shadows enveloped by a blood-red sunset?

I have, but not often. Contemplating these questions, I stood at the edge of a roasting it, fire licking at the logs that fueled its hunger. The wood crumbled to ashes, edges curling and turning to a pale gray white, leaving some to float up with the smoke. I had grasped a thin pine branch, fascinated by the embers of the life of fire, and poked at the heart of the pile of logs, willing for it to light and burn.

And now, as I sit here at 10:00 pm typing this out to the scores of Snow White and the Huntsman and The Hunger Games, I ask myself, what else have I wished and watched something with a passion that burned as high as the smoke of the logs, something as bright and brilliant as the shades of orange, gold, pink, and red.

Nothing. I have nothing that I have felt such a passion. I am not a pyromaniac, but I like watching the sporadic, unpredictable, and flickering waves of fire. I have felt nothing beyond my family.

If I could go on with this without ruining my train of thought, I would, but I have never been able to write something such as that, so there I stop. But it brings me to an end, a cliff where I have never fully drawn, and a cliff where I want to drop down and hope I land upon my feet.

It is THE CLIFF where I stand and fathom, what else have I not thought of? It isn't a cliff with an endless chasm or a deep dark abyss; it isn't a new beginning. It isn't a new dawn or the beginning of twilight or midnight for that matter. It is a continuation of something more important; but not and never will be a change.

Perhaps THE CLIFF will be something I will learn from, something to answer the questions that I have with more questions. An opportunity to learn perhaps? For maybe, it is just another road to more contemplation that never even addresses my thoughts.