My Dear Old Friend.

There is this window, with this boxed seat-this place, for the moment, is my place. Outside of this boxed window seat-there is this lawn. Shards of green ripple together in waves from the wind as it tossles their little bodies to and fro...This sidewalk that crosses between my seat and another-this place, is where he sits. Crouched where the grass separates the cement, script in hand, mouth murmuring back and forth reciting lines slowly and embedding them into his mind. What part will he play? Father? Brother? Lover? Friend? Foe? A stranger, perhaps?

It is amazing how, though, there is a window between him and I, how close we are. I mean this in the physical sense-he is there, I am here-a simple pane of glasses is all that separates us. Though this is true, we are still so far apart. Can you imagine how humans would function if there was no connection? ... we wouldn't. The disconnect between interactions would be so large that life would cease to function. Connections, much like creativity, can be found in the oddest of places; books, plays, music, interests, friends, travels...but what about more? What about a 'deeper' connection? Something that cannot essentially be described.

It was once described to me by a very wise professor, his own opinon for the word 'deep'. At first I did not agree with him...but over time, I have come to the understanding that it is true. According to him, the word deep, is often used to describe something of which someone does not understand-they have no other words to describe it. 'That is so deep...' My professor hated that through his life he has found many who use this word when there are, what sometimes seem to be, a barrel of never ending words to help us understand and describe the things that we do not...I too have become accustom to disliking the way this word is used. However, sometimes a connection with someone is so 'deep'-you cannot fully understand it. Whether it be too complex or just so blurry and ambiguous that it is sometimes something that you cannot put your finger on.

Standing from the sidewalk, head lowered, it is obvious of his doubt that boils so closely underneath of his frustration. The lines are not sticking. His mouth is moving and desperately this boy is trying to retain-to understand-so that he may act it for someone...but it will not. He does not understand that these things cannot be rushed, the words will not stay because they are not natural for him-there is no connection that he has made. Time. Intent. Care. Patience...Kneeling under the branches with shade disguising his disappointing emotions, he sets the script down, closes his eyes, and just lets the sun warm his back. In this moment, this realization overcomes his anger that though this is important, it is a process.


'...call off the fighting now, withdrawal the angered fangs. it's wasted boughts of circumstance leave no room for change. we've cursed our names a thousand times, we've cursed our own in vain...so shake the dust off of our skin, shed a tear or two, its time to break the way we've been so we can move on to-a brand new day...'--brand new day, Bukka Allen