Reminders

*Spoiler Alert - The picture below may not be suitable for everyone*

So many things can make you dredge up the past:  faces, a smell, a picture, a sound . . . a thought.  And when you come face-to-face with that emotion, it can often be too difficult to erase.  Been there, done that.  Reminders are more than just an alert from a calender -- telling you it's the anniversary of something you'd rather forget.  Maybe the reminder is to try and forget -- putting your energy into something else more time consuming.  Whatever it is, reminders can also be a trigger.  

I must say, placing this picture (taken a while back) in my blog was beyond one of the most impacting, yet extremely terrifying moments I've had to overcome.  Just as the following poem that leads after (will be posted soon). 

I'm such an enclosed person, that I never discuss my own emotions -- never wanting to be bothersome.  Most of my friends come to me to vent, but I never let it go the other way.  I'm there -- a bouncing board of ideas as to what to do -- how to stay calm -- how to breathe -- how to be positive.  Why hasn't that worked for me?  Why, now, must I write about the past?  Well, because it just seems to continue bringing its way back into my present being.  And I'm secretly hoping it never makes it to my future.  

Yes, I've tried to kick the habit of being my own psychiatrist -- prescribing my own remedies for unwanted thoughts -- Still trying.  Yes, I've gone days, weeks, months even, without resorting to those habits.  But just as one small whiff of odor can set one into a tail spin, so can one unblocked and blurry image.  

Moment by moment -- that's what happens.  I don't see myself as a person venting.  However, now, I see myself as a person FINALLY being able to speak.  And I hope that in time, I can speak about other moments.

"No more maybe's"

I watched her.  I watched from inside.  Peered from above.  And listened intently, because I knew something would protrude its way from under her staccato'd breathing.  But it didn't.  Maybe she never saw me.  Maybe the daze caught her for too long.  Took away her capabilities, just like it took mine.  I watched her.  She never moved.  Never.  Not once.  And I listened.  She said nothing.  I wondered when her actions would take place, but they didn't.  When those sharp pains subsided, she looked up, at me.  Still, nothing.  So, I watched, again.  Those once sharp pains, didn't seem like anything anymore.  The jabs were like clock work, and were persistent.  I wondered if she felt anything anymore.  Maybe she had disappeared . . . I wanted her to disappear -- from the outside, just as she did on the inside.  Maybe then my hovering would fall into one.  And she'd move.  Watch me.  Feel something.  Or maybe she knew how to control it.  That moment.  Those minutes, which went on for too long.  Or just maybe, as her daze sunk in deeper, she fell further.  And maybe she wondered too --  why my eyes were open and yet I never saw it happening.  Because if I did, why didn't I catch her?

~Kyra C.

Summer . . .

There's a quiet serenity that takes over a campus during summer vacation -- a seemingly private whisper, as the leaves sway.  The moment when all confusion is removed, and the only idea is clear skies NOT breaking.  An environment where people once trekked to and from, not noticing the beauty around them.  To only realize it, as the breeze stops, the leaves prohibit themselves from shaking, or changing color.  The fascination with birds, squirrels, and all nature -- they become one.  If only for a mere few months -- all nature resides in a commonality; of peace and quiet serenity.

The packed classrooms, are now empty.  The crowded buses, are cleared.  The subways . . . well, they're still in use.  The streets are filled with smiling inhabitants, packing for their annual trip to the "Cod," or the "Hamptons" and the only people visibly maneuvering through the streets, are either tourists, or locals with no need for travel.

It's funny how many people we look past, when they are EVERYWHERE.  And when that crowd disappears, for some, so does that ignorance.  The want to walk past someone; pretending they aren't seen, just because you don't want to be bothered.  That moment when you look down a corner, and there are more than six cardboard cots lined up . . . You turn up your headphones, turn your head, or proceed to pantomime a phone conversation, just so you aren't approached.  Well, that moment seems too irrelevant.  There are no longer a thousand people crowding the streets, so you cannot walk away.  Their faces are clearer, in a sense, you see their shame of lying on the ground.  You see them, as you jog through the park, exit the station, bike towards the River -- they are still there.  Many people have deserted the area(s), but they still have NOWHERE else to go.

There is no Cape Cod, no Hamptons, no summer vacation to another state.  There is only a move; to another corner, another street, maybe even another town nearby.  But they remain, the same people -- the same during each semester.  When you're running late and running away from a quick conversation, they are waiting, patiently.  When you're getting ready to pack up for another destination -- they are still visible.

There will always be a quiet serenity that takes over a campus during summer months.  It doesn't matter which campus, there will always be less people;  to meet, to speak to, to avoid, to walk past.  But just as you would stop to caress the leaves, or feed an animal, or possibly take a run -- why not clear a moment and break a habit?  Why not take a second to provide serenity for someone else?  It only takes a few moments, when you really have an entire summer.

Much Love,

~Kyra C.

"Don't laugh too hard, something bad will happen"

As I sat in the classroom, pondering the thought of a ten minute write, of something as abstract as putting together a story with only a few key prompts -- my shift became apparent, it was going to be about music -- of course.  So, as I sit, today, stroking the keyboard in anticipation of putting paper onto a white screen, I delve into my own personal music library and just sing . . . Sing, internally, and forget about the prolonged silence held within this room.  I type.

"Don't laugh too hard, something bad will happen"

It amazes me;  the synchronicity of each step, as the drummer's leg leave the ground.  Pulsating with extended vibrato, when the mallet pounces into the base drum.  BOOM.  BOOM.  Then, silence.  Almost as if to shift from reality, to death . . . As absurd as humanly possible, the drummer, freezes in place.  Sweat drenching the uniform, eyes glazed;  yet trapped under a helmet.  Stand still.  No one moves . . . A camera follows each angle, until there's enough to capture a full scale.  CRASH.  Not one person looks around.  Eyes fixated onto the distance;  no one looks toward the sound.  It's unimaginable, like tiny soldiers, the drummer's peer over.  Head's still in place, just to gaze at the cause for sound:  A mallet hit the ground.  What to do . . . A snicker protruding from silence?  Absolutely not.  Don't laugh too hard, something bad will happen, echo's within.  Yet, at that moment, nothing could be worse.

And as I've typed my last word and finalized with a period, I say goodbye -- or so long.  I will be back with yet another story.  But for now . . . Silence. :-p

Much Love!!  Peace out, dudes.

~Kyra C.