Caged in my mind. Unable to release my soul I yearn to breathe a sigh of relief, but the tension is building inside me. I sit and wait like someday it will come to me, what I'm meant to do, who I am meant to be. Expectations bring on the realization of the disappointment you have become. Restless to move and change, does not conquer the feelings of imprisonment, limitations, boundaries holding me back from my true potential. Blindfolded I am walking into a shadowed future. Uncertain of what I am to be, Unsatisfied with where I  am and what I know. My wings are restless and the urge to fly continues to rise. The need to get lost, and the wanting  to be found grow larger in my mind. I'm choking on the air unable to breathe, the chains around me won't let me leave. I wish to disconnect from the world to forget all that is going on to never have to decide between two again. To stop waiting and start running. If you must hold me behind break my wings so this suffering can end. Just set me free. Let me, be me.

She creeped around the doorway, peeking her eyes first. The cool floorboards pulsed up and through her tiny toes. She swung her head around to look for the switch that would make the monsters go away. The room illuminated with yellow unnatural light. She thought about it, then decided that was another thing to add to her list of fears. Quickly after, she swung her head back to focus on the problem at hand. It was still black under the bed. She regretted her decision of flipping on the switch because her toes were visible and they now knew that she was there. She decided to forget the stealth plan and bolt. She backed up to the very end of the hallway where her toes didn't touch the rug anymore. She closed her eyes counting five breaths and slowly eased them open. She ran, then she jumped. She made it onto the cushy surface, she was safe….for now.

My mind argues against itself.  Forward.  Stop. I kick forward the slush on the seven-story high roof.  Forward.  My feet continue.  Stop.  I pause.  Forward.  I continue.  Stop.  I pause.  Forward.  I move again, and though I hear the Stop, I continue.  I try to convince myself why I shouldn’t.  Lea, think.  Why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you?  But my feet continue on, without consent from my heart.  I finally reach the edge. Icicles are jagged off the side, like daggers.  I see the snow float over families walking happily on the sidewalks of New York.  I see the business men and women walking frantically toward their next appointment.  I push my toes to dangle off the edge.  I look down once more, and my stomach drops. You can’t do it, you can’t.  This time I listen. I try to hurry off the edge, but as I frantically turn to be surrounded by the warmth of the office building,  my foot slips on the ice.  I drop.  My screams are covered by the sound of cabs beeping in traffic, and a single tear freezes on my cheek when it goes black.

My grandmother was a splendid star shining on the sky. Even the greatest obstacles could not take her back. Her delicate, overwhelming karisma brought people’s respect.

I would ask her, “What is your motto of your life?”, then she would reply “Love others, then they will love you back.” She was a splendid star, shining so brightly in my life, anytime, anywhere.

But even the most brightful star started to fade away under the overwhelmingness of the time. The blunt karisma no longer represented her gentleness, and the star slowly lost its luster.

And on the cold December night, the star became a spark of splendid meteor that brightens the tranquil night sky. The scene of the star fading away shall remain in my memory forever; perhaps, my love for my respected grandmother will never fade away.

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL, I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL”

I’m the only one in the hall and all the doors are locked. I knock on multiple doors but nobody answers.. I’m trapped on the outside… I run towards the bathroom...locked… I get into the elevator and go  to the top floor as I get out I hit the alarm so the elevator shuts down. I turn on my phones flashlight and find myself surrounded by multiple pictures of my classmates. A door opens behind me… I’m caught.

She lived in two houses throughout her entire life. The first was her childhood house, where she lived until she was twenty-three. She never made any close friends there, and only had two birthday parties during her stay. No one came to either. She moved to her second and last house in Indiana, after her mother suggested she move out. No one threw a welcome party when she moved in. She moved between jobs for several years, finally settling on being an insurance agent. Her co-workers seldom reached out to her, so she never reached out to them. She worked there for thirty-six years. None of her co-workers ever remembered her birthday. Despite living in the same house for fifty-six years, she never got to know her neighbors, save a girl she had watched grow up who used to borrow sugar from her when she was in grade school. It was obvious that the girl didn’t like her. Eventually, after eight years of retirement, her body gave out, and she was moved to hospice. She died in her sleep. Her funeral was planned by the hospice staff. Only six people attended her funeral, and three of them were her caretakers.

I was never inspired to play the cello. I never actually wanted to play in the first place. When I was five, my mother handed me a wooden stick strung with horsehair and told me to pull it across these wires on an oddly-shaped wooden thing. Somehow, somewhere, a deep, strong feeling for music grew within me. Some people say it’s passion, but I call it an addiction. An addiction to music that follows me every step of my every waking day. Therefore, when I walk onto the stage of Lincoln Center, I don’t feel the butterflies that my colleagues claim to feel inside their stomachs, or a cold sweat trailing the palms of my hands. All I feel when I place horsehair upon wire is a release from reality. I close my eyes and let instinct take over. I don’t think, I feel. I give into my addiction and lose myself to the music.

People are born, people die. In between you have life. But what about after or before? Does life have a preference on apples or oranges? What statements could describe life? What statements could describe me? Does the fact I have a dog and a sister make me want to ask these questions? What I ate today, does that even matter in the grand scheme of things? If I gave a dollar to a charity would that really help? F tk t ll th vwls n ths sntnc wld tht mttr? But with more importance, why do I ask these questions? Questions like these are things I ponder every moment of every day, but no matter how much I ponder it doesn’t change anything. So why do I ponder at all? With every second that you and I sit here writing or reading, our time is slowly ticking away. To what end will this happen? The cycle continues, people are born, people die. In between you have life.

I was walking in the woods when I noticed that the path came to a split. Without a thought, I just walked down the one on the left. I was walking further into the woods, when I started to think about if I would have chosen the other path. This tiny little decision could have changed the rest of my life. Then I started to think about how other tiny decision could also change my entire life. It was crazy. I realized that every time I make a bad decision, it is affecting my life. Always think about your actions, and decide if that is the path that you really want to chose.

Again and just as before, sitting on the edge of the dimly lit dilapidated dock as he had done in years past, dangling his feet over the edge and brushing the water. Here he is again licking the last little bit of his vanilla flavored frozen custard out of the slightly mush remains of a once crunchy cone.  Flashes of a vision flash past his eyes, of laughs and of three small children, of a sunnier time with seagulls soaring and the smell of fish hovering above the ground like the waves of hot air from the midday heat of July. With a heavy sigh he stands up and turns his back on these memories, the swirling mist of the past. Ahead at the base of a great oak tree is a broken rowboat and in its overarching protection stand three miniature crosses each with a newly picked light purple orchid at their base.