Cursive,Print, and the Desire of Difference

Excerpt from the book on my night stand:






"I have noticed a pattern in these pages. Being an advocate for originality and spontaneity this is my attempt to break that pattern. I recently have read through the pages that I have written so far. I remembered everything about every page. I remember where I wrote it, what provoked it, whether wine caused it or pain. I even remember where the tears fell on many of the ink splattered pages. As I read along I noticed a dominating pattern. I only write when I feel like it. When something moves me it often times causes me to pick up a pen. There is a stirring of emotion that makes me feel that if I don't write down what is inside me it will destroy me or escape forever. I am not okay with either. This pattern disturbed me.

I am a man that wants to be unpredictable. I want to have no habits. I once did not eat for a week just to prove to myself that food did not even hold me under her boot. To prove that I did not have to eat like every one else. When I walk to class I don't take the sidewalk. I walk in the grass, the dirt, the mud. Dirty shoes mean you have been somewhere. It also reminded me of where I am going. If I follow the path everyone else follows then I tend to forget. Making my own path gives me a purpose. Where there are puddles I often walk through them as all the sorority girls tip toe around them in their rain boots. I don't think that I am special ore elite. I just want to be different. Which brings me back to the purpose of me writing. I want this time to be different from the others. If you flip through this book you will notice a sporadic compilation of cursive and print. Another attempt at being unpredictable. But every time I wrote it was because something manifested that response in me. This time is not so. I am sitting in a chair, donating blood, writing. Not because I have been stirred to write or want to write. Just writing because I want to be different. "


written many years ago, in a town of bloomington, by an ignorant pen. Nothing is new under the sun. Be careful.....difference may mascaraed as an evil creature.

- Mediocrity is a gift from God, but it is seen as a curse

My necklace

Four years ago today my Grandmother died. I remember it vividly. The memory is potent. It stings my eyes as they well up with tears. She was living in our basement, waiting to die. We all knew it would be soon. That however never seems to make it hurt less. Every time death visits you it feels brand new. I remember the phone call I got from my brother, "she is not going to make it". He barely could speak the sentence. His voice stammered and crackled through the phone. I could hear death on the end of the telephone, as it sat in my basement clutching my Grandmother's lungs. I dropped my books, grabbed my keys, and squeaked out, "I'll be there in 2 hours." To which was responded "you won't make it". I set the phone down and sat on my porch lifeless, hunched over in a chair with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. A silver necklace hung from my neck. At the end of the chain hung a tiny silver cross with a square amethyst stone in the center.

It was my Grandmothers

I never took the necklace off after she died. I wore it until the chain wore through the clasp and it broke. It now sits in a box on a dresser hidden away. Much like the body of my Grandmother; put in a box, placed in a wall by my family and I, far from me now but so close to my heart. Much like the purple stoned cross that hung on my neck and lay against my chest. I remember her laugh. I remember the goofy faces she made. I remember how much she hated getting old. I remember the way she swore when she thought no one could hear. Memories are all I have left of her. Her face imprinted in my brain, and in photographs. Photographs much like my necklace, much like my Grandmother. Placed in a box, and tucked away.

For Irene Roberts

I love and miss you

Thank you for the necklace.....

Not All That Glitters is Gold

Lie awake my restless soul be calm

You sit and wait for answers for so long

Follow me to the ever green where dreams are kind and she is mean, I know.

Forever is a word in songs, in life I do not know

Remember when you watched the sun with me?

Life against the Earth felt more than free

Now I stare at a tall jar of coins

Wondering if someday it will be as empty as me?

Listen my weary soul, there is something you should know

Love is stupid but man do you dream to be dumb

so fall asleep restless soul be calm

The answers will come before too long

No Sympathy for the Devil

You couldn't see the wood from the tree. Your eyes are unkind so don't look at me. You are all that I want but nothing that I need. Time and time again I called you a friend. How many times will it take till I see, the slave from the free?

Will this be the end of you and me?
Will this be the end of you and me?

Millions of rocks is really just sinking sand. Yet another blow I suffer from your hand. Show me again what you have to offer. Show me again what you've planned for me. Today I will stand as you pass me by, and you will ask why. Shaking your head with a smile. Knowing we will meet again in a short while.

"He will see, that he needs me"
"He will see, that he needs me"

Still falling, I suffer you, sadly. Searching for a break through badly. Slipping faster and faster like a landslide. Flirting between disaster and a good time. I see my old friend just as bright as day. Sitting in the dark corner smiling away. Willingly I open the door and invite him in. He takes my hand and showers me with sin.

"We meet again my old friend"
"We meet again"

Giving in, Giving in

I have a question. Who are you?.....Who are you?

Is it what you claim or what you say?
Or is it what you do and how you play?

Even if it's pain that I feel, at least I'll know that I'm real. Finally finding a break through. There sparks a desire to kill you. In the morning I will prepare. When I wake I will not allow you to scare, the fight out of the man. I take my sword in hand.

"Well done good and faithful"
"Well done..."

Cabernet of a Lonely Soul

You only know what I want you to. I wish you knew me. I can't love you , you can't love me. Your eyes can't see what I fear they may. What I dream they will. Dance with me under the stars, sit with me under the moonlight. Know that my touch means more then ones before. Forever am I in this prison? Just sing with me and help me forget the cage that surrounds me. Oh dance with me, baby forgetful me. Please hold me.
If I came to you lonely , would you let me lie in your lap, or would I fool you like the rest? Hold me near as you draw near, a countless pain across my face. Forever know, that love will grow if my heart you will embrace. Drink with me now, something to remember the beautiful. Keeping close, the things you "forgot". I'll keep you still, I will rock you to sleep. Sleep with me now.

"Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.....Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril." Oscar Wilde




"It is the consumer, not the author, whom interprets the meaning of words written. For each it may be different, for few it may be the same" Caleb Parker Suciu

Scared I'm not Scared

She started chipping away with her eyes. It was no surprise, I started crumbling
It could be something deep inside, similar to the time it died, I knew she was something
Prediction from the past, I'd be in trouble from the last, but this one doesn't feel the same
This times sorrows gunna loose, she's got a pocket full of choose, and she knows my name

I'm scared, I'm not scared
Kiss me on the lips say nothin at all
I'm scared, I'm not scared
Push me off the edge I'm ready to fall

The road is long, but she is strong, I probably will never comprehend
Her beauty inside, reflects the one outside, only one matters in the end
Growing old, are stories told, But she is young now
A peek in her past, is as long as it lasts, for few she will allow

I'm scared, I'm not scared
Hold my hand and walk with me
I'm scared, I'm not scared
Listen to my eyes, see what they see

Scared, I'm not scared

Cain and Able

It was far away. Yet now what was on the fringe has reached the surface. I ponder choices and schools of thought. My eyes have been closed when I have claimed sight. The signs point to foolishness. How beautiful it is to not know. The beauty of love, that has not betrayed. It has set me free

Forgive me now I do not know
The chance I have to make it grow
Through the light I see it's chance
I grab it, and choke the life with my hands
Lay it down slow as it begins to die
Not a tear I shed I will not cry

I wanted to know what it was like to destroy. Mcbeath! Mcbeath! Please bring me water. I can not be blamed. It was not my fault. You have driven me to this. You placed the knife in my hand. Please forgive me the life I have taken. I do not know the depth I have caused.

It felt me then and I feel it now
The quiet sin. I have kept unbenounced
My weakness is something I hold near
The one and only thing that I fear
There are so many things I have left unsaid
As a coward I walk, and hang my head

Weight

It falls hard, through the incessant reminder of where I am. Like many before me I am in a familiar place. It is a gift to be able to see beauty in the grayest of circumstances. A gift I often wish someone would give me. The lights of the city are heavy. I try to run from them but escape is futile. I learn to bear the weight. I position myself in a way of optimal "comfort". As I sweat bearing the weight of the incandescent rays of the city I realize I am not alone. Somewhere out there, there must be another fighting against the urge to buckle. His knees shaky, sweat dripping down her face, a tear of both sadness and pain passes his cheek. We are a multitude of armies of one.

Snapshots of those discharged flash past my eyes. I am torn between want of one or the other. I fear that it is probably like a lot of other things. When in one location all you can think of is what it is like in an opposing one. God must cry when He see's that. He must long to scream and just point out the obvious that He see's. However He is wise, therefore He says nothing. For a child does not learn to walk by having their father move their legs. No, he lets go of the seat of the bike, and never has a pocket vacant of band-aids.

Weapon of Choice

I have taken a hiatus from writing. this was intentional for a few reasons. One simple reason was I didn't have much to say. Well, not anything I had wished to make known to others. The more compelling reason for my recent silence was because of something Thoreau said. "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." I do not want to ever sit to write when it is apropos to stand. I have learned that written word, while extremely powerful, is equally if not more dangerous. Words cut deep and quick. If the speaker takes lightly the placement and timing of his dagger he suffers the innocent and the fragile. As we grow in wisdom our words will become few. The more one uses his words, the less they will mean.

" When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise."

The threat of words is equally real to the author as it is to the received. I believe that words can be pacifism in disguise. They [words] are a complacent creature and therefore should be treated with caution. A man may think that he is taking action when drawing a pen instead of a sword, however he may be scripting his own downfall. I accept the camouflage of my friend, and I hold him with a loose fist. If need be I will drop my pen, never to pick it up again. I thank God I have not been called to that yet. I do still have use for this tool, and will probably use it until I die....however: before you speak, before you write, remember....

"No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous." -Henry Adams-

Pseudo Sapient

The subsequential life has tired me. It seems the periods that linger the longest are in the pits of life. Probably because we expend so much energy to exit them ourselves. However I never fail to fail. Excited by some new auspicious thing. Hopes rise, scenarios are formed, and dreams are indulged. When in reality you have made something out of nothing. When this clarity hits it explodes the scenarios from the core. Scintillating into countless ash that removes more dirt from your pit. I haven't seemed to find a medium. A middle ground from being so naively extravagant and being to chary. I think perhaps you may only have the two options. One or the other. Each poses its own difficulty. To be so cavalier that something amounts to nothing, or to be so eager the carriage gets ahead of the horse.

O think I know the key. The gains of Wisdom. There are only two ways to gain wisdom. The first is by trial and error. The most important aspect being the error. This way is effective but very costly. Scars are left behind and often times, as is with our nature, scars lay on top of scars. The second way to gain wisdom is to listen to someone older and wiser then you. someone who has sat in many pits before you and has gotten out of them. Perhaps dirty, bloody, and broken but nevertheless succeeded. With this epiphany I am going to set my pencil down and go read the words of men who went before me....

The Problem of Pain

Beneath the sands of time I now search. Picking up grains of the life I have lived so far. I don't know how I should feel. Nostalgic perhaps. I feel like I have grown old, just when I got the hang of being young. But as the great Dr. Seuss said "Do not cry because it is over, smile because it happened." Searching through pictures of old, I wish I could do it again. Often times I wish for a mulligan. Others I just wish to relive. It is funny how some of the people you least expect to still be there are still there, and some of the ones that swore allegiance are gone. I can not blame them. Without a doubt I am an absent person who has sworn allegiance in someone else's life. Anger has never been an emotion I carry closely towards another. (To myself is a different story.) This brings to light the problem of pain that is manifested by those come and gone. How do you deal with it? Some more constructively then others. Some pretend it is never there; bury it down deep to never be addressed or resolved. Then they wonder why it hurts so much to breathe. They walk through life unconsciously yet consciously with hurt written on their faces. In their smile, laughter, and tears it is evident. They just hope, they pray, that some day someone special will recognize it. They hope someone will ask the question they have been dying to hear.

I have a thought (as I typically do) on the problem of pain. Embrace it like a brother. When it knocks on your door welcome it gladly. Pain is one of the greatest assurances we have in knowing that we are aliens of this world. "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world" - C.S. Lewis. When I say the word home what does it mean to you? Warmth, beauty, comfortable, familiar? Does it mean dysfunction, abuse, failed expectations, hurt, pain? If you are reading this and never felt pain at home, I encourage you to check your pulse. Pain is nothing more then an alarm that something is wrong. Something has been set out of place. Something is not as it is meant to be. I plea with you to challenge that pain. Do not merely rub it, until it goes away. Do not pass it off as norm. Challenge it with why. Why do I hurt?

Quite simply, you are not yet truly at Home.

" Your soul has a curious shape because it is a hollow made to fit a particular swelling in the infinite contours of the Divine substance, or a key to unlock one of the doors in the house with many mansions." - C.S. Lewis

Lost and Found

He dreweth in the Earth and leaves that which he sought
Today will be the start of change he thought
A path of wonder, excitement dreamt
He set out with no letters sent.
"They will miss me, oh what they will say,
When e'er I return to speak my tale some day"

Like the breeze moves fallen leaves he set out on his way
The people not miss him, not a woman kiss him as he fell a stray

Not long after his journey on, miss fortune struck him thin
Far from home he had wandered, still no one thought of him
Fear and doubt plagued his mind, to his knees he fell and screamed
But the ears at home had turned deaf to him it seamed

Under a tree at the top of a hill, he sat with his hands at his side,
All alone far from home, he breathed his last and died.

Much like he are some of yee, weary and lost
Fear and doubt come about like a winter frost

Not like he death alone must be your fate
There is a light that saves a life, a gift you must take

For not like he who died under the tree, He was nailed upon
To save a life, He gave a life. A pauper to a pawn.

-anonymous

When Good Becomes Bad

To my fellow Christian,

In the recent days my mind has been pondering the calling of those who have been saved by Christ. If this not apply to you I warn that proceeding will most certainly result in confusion, yet I find it [confusion] an underrated state of being. The purpose of our lives, which are not our own, is quite simple. Yet in our humanistic way we have turned that which is simple into very complex. I think mostly in part to multiple divisions of subgroups which are mostly governed by their own set of idealistic views. From this we have spawned many secs of religions. I do not have the knowledge nor the time to argue any of these divisions. I do however wish to "get back to basics" if you will and define that which I believe is so simple. Also to give a warning to my brother and sister on what I believe to be one of our greatest threats.

The base line foundation of what a follower of Christ's calling should be is to reflect the image of Christ as if we are a mirror; to those unsaved and saved around us. When we were dead in ourselves, in our transgressions, the image we portrayed was dark and filthy. The blood of Christ washed the filth to reveal a beautiful mirror. Often times the things that are most beautiful lie under the greatest amount of filth.

I now wish to warn you of the greatest threat to that reflection. You must be aware of anything that will spot that reflection. The culprit of the tarnished reflection is almost always something good. Beware the warning signs. Beware the successful life. Beware the hurried lifestyle. Beware the pursuit of "happiness". Beware the long awaited relationship, job, clothes, position. Beware the entertainment. Beware habits. If what you reflect does not mirror Christ get out the Windex and a rag, get on your knees, and scrub. Always be checking your mirror for possible stains. If you do find a stain, never have a grip on that good thing to tight to not be able to let go.

Autumn Leaves

Upon the breeze, the autumn leaves
Are carried thither, yon:
They rest at last, upon the grass
One moment...then they're gone.
They're tossed about and in and out
They fly across the way;
And up and down, they sail around-
The wind they must obey.

Now, if you please, the autumn leaves
Are much like most of us;
We're tossed about by fear and doubt
And things we rare discuss.
This need not be, for you and me-
There is a surer way;
The solid Rock, will bear the shock
No matter what the fray.

He who believes is not like leaves
That drift with every wind,
His faith is fixed, in God unmixed
With doubts that Satan sends.
He walks with God, while earth he trods
He's led by pow'r divine;
When life is through, beyond the blue
He'll dwell in lands sublime.

-Carl C. Williams, Sr.

Before the curtain falls

I write to you with the utmost importance. To you the reader of my words, the consumer of my thoughts. To you who have been given a peep hole into my mind. I write to you now. I appeal to you, do not take my words lightly. If nothing I have said before resonates let this be it. If one page is dogeared fold this one down. It is the most important thing I will ever be able to share.

My writings have all come from a very deep quiet part of me. As often many writers do they assume different characters. These characters may often have opposing views to that of the human that flicks their pen to create them. I believe there is beauty in that. In the process of interpretation of the true meaning by the reader. Almost like a play where the final act is taken place in the vehicles of the audience on the way home. The curtain is not let down until those watching the performance have performed the act of interpretation. I now give you this. A one act play that has no hidden meaning. Zero fine print, and houses 100% of the authors heart and devotion. This is my greatest piece of work and simplest truth.

We are all damned and have earned the right of eternal judgement in a very fiery eternal grave. Do not fear, for I have found the one and only truth that will exclude you from such a fate. It is not a brilliant revelation or of original thought. Yet as simple as it has been made it seems to be unacceptable in our minds. If we must pay a price for our evil, and that price is our lives, the only thing possible to pay that price is with a life. I have found the one man that can give his life in order to save yours and mine. A man who had no evil inside of him. A man so holey he shines like the sun. The son of the one and only true God. A man who's name is Jesus the Christ and has saved me from me.

He is perfect and without evil. His struggle while on earth is inexplicable. It is to Him that I am eternally grateful. It is to Him and for Him why I write. It is because of Him I am alive. For He rescued me while I was dead and breathed new life into me. In my writings you may be able to point to a blind man, a sick man, a sceptical man. These are all scenes from a play I have lived out. Scenes that end with the blind having sight, the ill becoming whole, and the sceptic with unwavering belief. All of these characters are without a doubt me. However when the curtain falls and the final act begins the characters go back stage, wash the masks off of their faces, fall on their knees, and pray to God He will lead the audience to the right conclusion.

Audience I am now giving you the final act. There is no car ride discussion needed for this play. Merely acceptance of a gift that is freely given to all. Acceptance of Christ that finally gives you what I know you have been searching for.

The breath of life breathed into your dead lungs.

"He who believes in Him is not judged; he who does not believe has been judged already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God."

If today were forever

If today were forever I would play the piano.
Every key pressed with purpose and meaning.
Never landing out of turn or out of place.

If today were forever I would walk until my knees hurt.
Through the grass and fallen leaves.
Underneath the trees until lost felt like home.

If today were forever I would sing a song.
A slow song, maybe a little sad and a little happy.
A song that said 'I love you" but never said the words.

If today were forever I would steel a kiss.
A kiss that was neither short nor long.
A kiss that belongs in the movies, and then I would run away.

If today were forever I would sit by the ocean at sun set.
I would smoke a pipe,
And let my mind try to contemplate the beauty.

If today were forever I would laugh and I would cry.
I would yell and I would whisper. I would build and tear down.
I would wake and I would sleep.

Let today be today,
And let tomorrow be forever

Perfect Love Casts Out All Fear

For some time the words I have written have been interpreted, by the few that have read them, as bitterness. I have recently gone over the pros of my youth and I see that interpretation is correct. For reasons that I wish to be discreet about my view towards women has been that of disdain. I wish now to change that pattern in my writings for it has without a doubt changed in my mind. I do however want to make one point before I continue. While I do believe my previous views were wrong I do not regret the path that has brought me to my present state. However misguided I was God spared me from many snares and falls in a very fragile time of my life.
In order to disprove something I must initially clarify that which I am now arguing against. Not so many years ago I openly loathed women. They were the butt of my jokes and they were the organism of which I blamed all of my problems. For that I must now pause and apologize. I am truly sorry. I believed women to be seductive, lying, fake, dumb, and the most cruel of creatures. While women can be all of these things they are not subject strictly to women nor do I have any right to judge or generalize for I too have been all of these things. At the time I did not see myself for who I really was...the lowest of the low, the most sinful of sinners. When you live in darkness there is no light cast onto you to show who you really are. One of the most distinctive characteristics of someone who is living in darkness (sin) is how quick they are to judge others. If we see ourselves for who we really are no offense against us will seem great, for it will be overshadowed by the light that shows our multitude of sins.
As my paper is limited, my sins are many, and I see no benefit in visiting my past sins, you will have to take my word that darkness was the path I chose for a while. My dislike towards women was fueled by sin, however it was not the primary source of my disdain. I will reveal what was but with the preface that it is of extreme difficulty for 3 reasons. The first is that it scrapes at some wounds that lay deep and despite the scars that cover them I still feel some sensation of pain. Secondly because I have rarely been this open and honest about this subject. Lastly because it shows one of my greatest weaknesses and fears. My greatest reason for my hatred towards women was because of the power a woman seemed to have over me when I let them come close. I know you may be thinking this is no new thing or secret. Let me explain further what I mean by this.
When I was very young I gave my heart to a woman. By no ones fault but my own. This young girl and I dated for 6 years. Six years that I see now as extremely pivotal in my life. For reasons I will not indulge in detail I chose to end this relationship. The pain that I felt from the tearing apart was something I can not begin to describe. However this pain is still not the reason I hated women. The reason I hated women and kept them at an arms distance for so long was because I hated myself for what I did to her. The immense pain that I caused her made me hurt inside to the point of not eating for weeks. The promises I broke, and the lies I told all destroyed who I was inside. I still remember the day as if it were a nightmare that continues to visit me. I remember what she wore, I remember the words that were yelled, I remember the things that were thrown, and worst of all I can still picture the face that starred back at me. That day took such a toll on my life that I subconsciously decided to hate every woman that came my way with some sort of interest in me. I never wanted to hurt someone the way that I did her ever again.
This defense has evolved since then to take different shapes. Now at 23 and many losses in love I know now what it means and how to love someone. To truly love someone is to sacrifice. To give up what is closest to you for the other person because you LOVE them. For me, ultimately in a weird way, that means to let go of my fear and get close enough to hurt someone again.
So to those who were worried my bitterness had corrupted me beyond repair I pray this convinces you otherwise. I have been more honest about me with these words then I ever have before. With that I also hope you use this knowledge not for an arrow in a quiver with my name on it, but for maybe a better understanding of yourself. What kind of a man would I be if I held a secret or parable that could help my fellow man to myself for fear he may use it against me? A coward. I have been a coward for to long. I have been afraid far to many years. For perfect love casts out all fear.

The Sad Man's Song

I lay quietly to hear my own voice
It has slowly faded to a whisper
I'm sorry I have no other choice
It has faded, I can barely remember

The sounds of silence pierce my ears
A mother cries without understanding
A Lover's love for a thousand years
A haters hate that is so demanding

The clock ticks my life away
The future's coming, the past is going
I gaze at Sundown another day
She has my heart without even knowing

A sinners blood flows through my veins
Hell is full and she's waiting for me
Before she takes me I try in vain
To give back the fruit I stole from the tree


Knowledge of Good and Evil, is bad
The lone man stood amongst the crowd, so sad

From Heaven to hell the blind now see
A man that never fell now hung on the Tree

Never Never Land

Not much good happens so deep into the night, but I made a promise. I made a promise to a friend that I would write more. That I would try to make more sense of thoughts and musings and try to place them into words. Not a small task for my small brain but I believe the promise had something to do with a pinkie. From what I hear that is the most prestigious of promises, something that I do not wish to ever breach.

Despite the fact that it goes against my better judgement (which I was surprised to know I had any) to talk about that which is on my mind tonight I am going to do so any way. One thing that I seem to have always had in excess is an imagination. Something that a man named Mr. Rodgers told me was the greatest thing in the world and it could take me anywhere. You could call it naivety but I believed 100 percent a man who's first name I swear to this day is Mr. I also to this day still believe the man the same 100 percent as I did long or not so long ago. Although now the theology that has been instilled in me from the man named Mr has been proceeded by that of a street on sesame, a station for imagining, and most of all a never never land.

It is the never land that I wish to indulge further. It is a place that I visit often even in the extended years of my so called youth. I only feel like I look young. Which is part of the reason why my never never land knows my face so well. It is a place like none other. Where the young edify the old , and in turn the old turn young. I guess as you get older you forget how to ride a bike, play a superhero, run fast, and just do nothing without the worry of what you should be doing.

I know that upon writing this I have without a doubt caused some to react with thoughts of certain insanity. For those who so apply I have but only two rebuttals. If you think me insane for traveling to never land although you may be right I find you unbelievably dull and your tedious life bores me. Secondly if sanity is reached by never visiting the one place that has never changed since my youth then I am A O K with being insane.

Just Give it Some Time

Quite often I have written of matters of time. It seams time is one thing that has not been on my side. At least not yet. It seams time in and of itself is one of the only constants. The only thing in life that is guaranteed. Each day takes 24 hours, each hour takes 60 minutes, and each minute is slowly yet quickly pushed forward by a universal second. The time that goes by is inevitable. It is the same now as it has ever been. Have you ever sat and listened to a clock tick? The sound is unmistakable. Often times it ticks in our heads without us even realizing it. We tap our feet to a song, or walk in a steady pace. Time is the one thing everyone has in common. There is no language barrier to surpass, there is no foreign element. It is the one thing we can all agree on.

What if it changed? What if for some; time was spent much faster. What if for some; time stood still. Would everything we know fall apart. Would chaos tear apart our world. For those who experienced this would we label them as insane? Or would we call those people, the ones that see time move more slowly. The ones that find it hard to breathe in between each second. The people who finally stop hearing the ticking of the clock. Would we call them in love?