22

Wanderlust: the profound feeling that within the soul, there exists a compass that constantly tugs at the very foundations of the being, pulling the body in whichever direction the winds happen to blow on that given day.
I first realized that this was a part of me during my teenage years...can anybody say Road Trip? Oddly enough, the colossal cross-country venture that was taken was not even my idea; I ended up being the fourth tag-a-long in a small silver car with three other girls. Well, two girls and one woman - the little Honda Civic was crammed with my best friend, her sister, their mother, and yours truly. I remember my heart pounding as we left our town in the early morning, and then the sinking disappointment creeping in as we drove nonstop through the the seemingly endless stretch from north Florida through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Little did I know that the interstate in the southeastern United States rarely reveals any wonders besides spectacular views, an occasional road kill, and Waffle House signs at every exit. Texas became more promising - it was entertaining counting the Texan flags that scattered the towns, and seeing the sparkling city of Dallas from a distance at night seemed downright cosmic. We grazed the corner of New Mexico, and then finally reached our first destination (Colorado), after over thirty hours of driving. To be continued.
Wanderlust is not a conscious choice; it is in innate part of a being, but the choice to act upon it or to stomp it out is up to the person who carries it. It is an unpredictable phenomenon that can rise and fall like the tides on the shore. There are times when it seems to ebb away, and times when it comes crashing back full force.

21

There is a ballet
In which the dancers
Are planets and stars
Spinning unrelentingly

And we observe them
In wonder and awe
Wondering what could sustain
Such marvel and persistence

Can we not
Imbue such beauty
In a world of consciousness
And gifted will

But the stars have withstood
The test of time
And we forget
That we are only temporary

20

In response the person I heard today putting down her friend who is dreaming of becoming a music teacher (because it is a "low-level and intellectually-unchallenging life-style...he can reach higher than that!")...
Please please PLEASE be aware, it takes an INSANE amount of courage and hard work to become a person who is dedicated to the arts, and is in no way easy or a "stupid career path!!" Art/Music students (the dedicated ones, at least) are just as hard working as the students in any other major, and I'd even go out on a limb and say that in most cases they are even more so. Where else will you find people staying awake to work for over 72 hours straight, living off of coffee and sleeping on campus (ok, besides you engineer guys...)? In most cases, artists/musicians/actors don't even have much straight-forward direction to follow (like textbooks to read and write papers on, or tests to study for and pass) - they're relying on pure creativity, improvisation, and self-motivation to produce at their highest possible level (which is tough when you're usually starving, lol!)...it takes an enormous amount of determination. Anyone who's aware of the real world right now and has a brain (left OR right sided ;) ) realizes that the job market isn't exactly inspiring - it definitely takes some extra guts to pursue an art-related career when the country is cutting back on any liberal spending. There's a growing number of people in the Arts in Medicine program who make children feel better and suddenly become talkative on a daily basis, after doctors give them all sorts of medications that don't relieve their pain and stress. I firmly believe that if magic's real, it exists in art. And if anything, I also think that every artist/musician I've met was just as happy as anyone else around them, if not more so! :) This has probably been my first and only FaceBook rant (yeey!), but I feel like it needed to be said!
Also, backupz!: http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702304402104579149060054918936?mod=trending_now_1

19

It seems incredible that for all that human beings have evolved into, we lack a real and full ability to feel each other.

18

Road trippin' with my two favorite allies
Fully loaded we got snacks and supplies...

Suave, cool, and confident.

It's time to leave this town
It's time to steal away

Ryan's sharp jawline was accentuated by his blonde 9 o clock shadow, maintained flawlessly to look playful, but not messy.

Let's go get lost
Anywhere in the U.S.A.

His body swayed into the song, which had been practiced for an unknown count of times to reach this level of perfection.

Let's go get lost
Let's go get lost

I wondered if his mind could possibly wander anywhere else besides solely on what he's playing and singing while he's so engaged in a performance. I wondered what it would feel like to be touched by his hands, and what it would be like to talk aimlessly with him in bed until the early morning hours, what his silhouette looks like as he sleeps.

Blue you sit so pretty
West of the one
Sparkles light with yellow icing
Just a mirror for the sun
Just a mirror for the sun
Just a mirror for the sun

The overhead light in the room exploded into full brightness, and our eyes met. We smiled to each other. It was a moment that begged acknowledgement of the slow and sure passage of time and seemed clearly to say, "You are both moving on."

These Smiling eyes are just a mirror for...

The connection between us was just too contrived, which in most cases will happen after meeting a stranger who you have exchanged messages with over several weeks. Fascination will always stubbornly rebut force. But I became aware of the lost lovers of his past that he must also be struggling to move on from, and I missed Austin.

17

For privacy purposes, his name is Thomas. Thomas is a two year old boy who is brought to the fitness center's Kid's Club at least twice a week by his mother. On most mornings, he stays with us for around an hour while his mom goes off and gets sweaty doing different strenuous workouts. The first time I saw Thomas toddle into the room, I noticed the multitude of light bruises on his forehead and his pudgy arms and legs. We quickly learned where he earned his ugly trophies from: Thomas is a thrill-seeking toddler who never fails to find the most impossible ways to injure himself (although fortunately never seriously of life-threateningly). These accidents can range from him toppling over backwards while trying to lift himself up onto the knee-height table in the middle of the room to him rolling off of the beanbag that he managed to triumphantly scale, as if the soft fabric were the jutting rocks of Mount Everest. My favorite incident, although I prefer it only because of the story that it created and not because of the moment itself, was when we turned to find him struggling head-down and feet kicking towards the ceiling in another baby's carrier that he had tipped over. To him, the carrier must have presented the mouth of a cavernous cave just begging to be explored. My co-worker managed to grab his legs in one hand and pry him from the carrier before anything terrible happened. Immediately afterwards we watched in awe as he crawled off into the sunset in search of his next adventure, not a baby tear shed.
Several attendants in the Kid's Club are apprehensive about Thomas's behavior and choose to leave him in "The Car": a baby bouncer that provides a safe confinement for troublesome babies. However, I am a supporter of Thomas's risky life-style. I believe that as long as he is supervised, he is building within himself the confidence and self-assurance that many *adults* lack. With every fall he is learning just how far he can push himself, and with every tumble he is discovering just what he needs to change the next time he endeavors to run from one side of the room to the other. We are watching the birth of a world leader, an Olympic athlete, a Grammy-winning artist, or whatever he is ambitious enough to achieve in the future.

16

Gabriel McQueen was an inveterate wanderer of the Coney Island board walk and amusement park. He is perhaps the most conspicuous phenomenon in the park between the carousels and coasters. Not one of the freaks, weirdos, carnies, or any of the local aberrations would be able to offer even a little insight into his peculiar lifestyle. Most people notice his intriguing device before they actually take him in: a plastic Five-Star folder that has been covered with mirrors, held on by duct tape. He holds this aloft as a deacon would the Cross, and it in fact appears to lead him by some ethereal force. He positions the mirrored folder to reflect the sunlight, which creates little Tinker Bells that dart from one place to another ahead of him. The other prominent oddity about Gabriel is his choice of attire and his overall appearance. His mullet may or may not be a wig leftover from the 80s Hair Metal era. He most often wears a Kool-aid red T shirt with a weight lifting belt strapped around his waist, and blue jeans no matter how hot the day.

15

Far, far below me the jaws of the sea were opened wide, anticipating the moment of my consumption. I have long forsaken the acknowledgment of the ice embellishing my beard like jewels or the absence of any blood in my fingers and feet. My hands - now devoid of any flexibility - have become my only anchor. The wind howls and beats against my stiff body so powerfully that I can't help but wonder how the bruises will ever heal if I survive. I risk adjusting my head slightly so that I can peer downwards under my shoulder and glimpse what lies below, but I quickly avert my eyes and whip my face upwards towards the grey sky again to escape seeing the froth and foam leaping towards me like hounds against a tree trunk, waiting for some doomed animal to give in and surrender itself to its fate. But I will not give in. I can, and I will, survive.

14

It's the calm before the electric surge of New York City. Tomorrow I will be on the eighteen hour bus journey yet again, but this time with a different companion. The giddiness is beginning to set in. I am hoping that the city will breathe new air into my lungs and inspire me to climb out of this hole. Maybe I won't even return. New York is the beating heart that keeps America's blood flowing through its arteries and veins, perhaps it can act as a defibrillator for my own still heart. New York, I love you!

13

You think I'd forget you?
Does the earth forget the sun,
Do the tides fail to rise and fall?
Some things are forever
Some things do not fade.

12

...My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl. My name is Elizabeth Gertrude ZoellnerFisch. I'm grateful that I only have a ten second memory because otherwise I would die from the loneliness and boredom of living alone in a fish bowl...

11

It took me a long time to comprehend what the pit feeling in my soul means. It crept up upon me like a dead fist washes onto the shore, coming in and pulling back and then coming in closer and pulled back just a little less more, over and over until it settles onto the sand. It began with diminutive episodes of anxiety that would quickly be smothered out by fun-filled nights with friends or passionate sex with my lover. But the foreboding never failed to return. And Foreboding is unpredictable: He will sometimes hang around for an extended stay, and sometimes take a long vacation but then arrive again unannounced and unpredictably. With every visit we develop a deeper bond and understand one another more clearly.
I am certain now that this is the feeling of Death. I see it when my eyes find their reflection in the mirror. I inhale it as I awaken daily. I hear it in the static of conversations. I am not hearing voices in my head, but I can feel the terror of Death that most people that I am surrounded by are blessed enough to be muted to. I constantly search for a way to shake it but I am fearing that it has taken too firm of a hold of me at this point for me to ever hope to be able to escape. My Death is coming soon.

10

Each night, between the cycling days while the sun was turning her face towards foreign lands, the stone surfaces would crumble away and they would shake the dust from their smooth fur as they were reborn anew. A moment of triumphant stillness would ensue, and then they would put their noses to the wood below their paws and bound to each other across the tabletop in the dark bedroom. They would greet each other as two eternal lovers would, and then proceed together into the night hunting for nightmares or heavy-burdened thoughts to chase down and devour. The sleeper could sometimes hear their howls in her dreams - always distant and barely audible over the silence of whatever troubled dream she was having, but always she would sleep easy after the Shi (Lions) chased down her nightmare and pulled it struggling down between them.

9

Kallie tossed the capsules of Powdered Motivation into the cart on top of her Lays potato chips and Betty Crocker peanut butter cookie mix.
"I'm gonna be kick kick kickity koooo and make a smoothie before I study tomorrow! Jealous much?"
Laura took a second can off the shelf to examine the labels. GOES BEST WITH HARD WORK. was blazed along the bottom of the can. CAN BE COMBINED WITH ANY EDIBLE FOOD OR LIQUID. FOR BEST RESULTS, TAKE IN THE MORNINGS WITH BREAKFAST.
"I remember when energy shots were the thing. Does this really work?"
"I had the best sex with Eric after taking it. So yeah." Kallie reached for another container after that thought and added it to the basket.

8

The repetition
Of waking and falling asleep
Is passing too fast

7

Emilie led the room of over fifty people into the flying pigeon pose, and I found myself folded over with my left foot on the ground and with my face centimeters from my right shin. We were practicing Vinyasa Flow Yoga - a modern form of yoga that stresses focus on the breath. But the outrageous position that I was crunched into led me to become aware of an entirely different part of my body: the small, pearl white cluster of scars that formed a string two inches in length on my leg. It shone in the sunlight cast through the full-wall window, looking like precious diamonds embellishing my shin. I brushed it with my fingertips, remembering dismounting the horse years ago to discover that the pain in my leg while riding was due to my idea to ride chapless, which caused my leg to rub against the saddle flap, rewarding me with a bloody sore that took months to heal over. Instead of forming one large scar, it had broken up into several tiny dots - like the islands of the Florida Keys. Now, years later, these scars spoke to me. The wound had become a distinct hyptopigmented patch of skin, and that area of my skin shone forth as the purest white of my entire body. The trauma that my shin had withstood created the opportunity for it to be rejuvenated into what I now consider the most beautiful part of my leg. I think to truly radiate as a person, our souls must also suffer some damage. It's the one who've cracked that the light shines through.

6

Today a thought came to me: There is a world of difference between a Leader and a Boss.

5

It's astounding how quickly women's role in American society has metamorphosed within only the past few decades. Seriously, how did expectancies change from The Perfect Housewife to The Take-On-The-World-And-Grab-Life-By-The Balls Girl in less than half a century? The problem is that the new moth is now beating itself repeatedly against the porch light when it comes to relationships with...men. And it's not surprising. From what I've gathered from the men in my life, they don't sit as well to change compared to us more effeminate crowd (In general, there's always the outliers!). So how do we expect to be treated in the "same way" that women were in the 1950s, with the door-holding and the financially covered meals? Isn't a little unfair to put ourselves into a power position but at the same time demand to be treated as pets? Chivalry is fair to ask for, but asking to be supported when you're a doctor and your new boyfriend has a job at Office Max just seems downright shameful. If you don't want to be complaining about your man not paying for dates, then don't date the ones who aren't pushing themselves as far as you.

4

The knot in the hardwood floor panel becomes my world - my focus, my whirling thoughts, my physical pain, my questions...everything. I never knew it was possible to be so angry at a mahogany dot. My thoughts run in every direction, like roaches scurrying from a kitchen light being turned on late at night. I somehow have to lasso them together and turn the remainder or my mind into a large, empty void. Horses constantly escape from the heard: "Austin should be here.," "Is that girl a lesbian?," "Holy shit my legs and lower back hurt.," "What happens if you fart while meditating?." And then imagined conversations set in. I can't tell if the sweat is coming from the un-air conditioned Florida attic that we're sitting combined with the agonizing discomfort of remaining perfectly still for twenty five minutes, or from the challenge of completely clearing my mind.

3

What should Leah do with her life? Should she follow her parents into medical school and become a psychologist or a doctor of some field? Or should she hold fast to her passion for sick and disturbed men and become a criminal psychologist? (That, at least, she already has the beginnings of a resume for.) Should she look into a career in forensics and become the inspiration for the next generation's shows? Or should she say "Fuck it all" and go fishing for the elusive RichWhiteMan sea bass? It's the question of our lifetime, and everyone is anxiously awaiting the unfurling of her the rest of her 20s and early 30s. A common opinion is that she should delve into the depths of extrasensory perception (ESP) and become an investigator of parapsychological phenomena. The fact that her cat possesses a strong connection with ouija boards strengthens this idea as well. With this lifestyle, she would have the freedom to inform others of what to do with their lives, while concurrently doing almost nothing of significance with her own. But for us non-psychic population who will never have the powers to distinguish answers in a crystal ball, only the future will reveal what she chooses to pursue.

2

The shrill cry of the brakes interrupted my subconscious thoughts and caused me to momentarily glance up from my sketchbook to survey the mass of New Yorkers presented in my subway car. New York: A city who's every inhabitant displays such an overwhelming ability to stand alone, and infallibly resist any eye contact with others. Yet hardly anywhere else in the country can such a diverse group of people stand shoulder to shoulder in such an intimate area and feel this at ease with a transvestite's crotch a foot away from their face, or a homeless man rocking back and forth in the seat next to theirs. Maybe it is the constant physical closeness in the city that provides every New Yorker with the innate need for a sense of family and community. The momentum of the train causes the entire mass of people in the car to lean for a few seconds, looking like a room from a carnival fun house. We recover, and the doors open to exhale the departing and inhale the newcomers. I inconspicuously prop my red moleskin against my purse until the car settles - I haven't quite been able to let go of the desire to keep my personal artwork out of the view of strangers. The page in progress now consists of three layers - an original sketch, a jumble of scribbles over it that I proceeded to do in a moment of frustration after intensely disliking that sketch, and finally the statements "TOO MUCH FOR ANYONE" / "NOT ENOUGH FOR ANYONE" written vertically mirroring each other in large black sharpie letters. I watch an older, slightly worn-around-the-edges man search for a seat and fatefully sit almost directly across from me. The funny thing is, I don't remember ever making eye contact with him (How could I have, if he was a native New Yorker?). But I don't think that I've ever in my life felt such mysterious, overwhelming energy between myself and a stranger. In the short time that we shared together in that subway car, I became certain that this was a person in which I shared a deep connection beyond any understanding of the physical world. It was different than lust. It was a feeling that everything that had ever happened to me or that take place in the future in my life without this man was horribly pointless and insignificant. He was in no way a head turner; his age was difficult to place, anywhere between mid thirties and mid fifties. He donned glasses under almost shoulder length, unkempt hair, and there was a look of a scholar or a professor about him.

1

The summer of consistent, never fail rainy days. The possibilities that your twenties hold (the possibilities of the rest of your life, for that matter) descend in a glistening roar of thousands upon thousands of cries of "This is your path!," "This is your direction!," "This is your best option, can't you see?" Maddened you wish for the opportunity to have participated in the very first ticks of time - to have been able to have seized the second hand and wrenched it off the clock raging "No! You silly and stupid system! Who's idea was this!?, to create a world in which every living organism is given just one chance to make it, with no repeats and no going back to an earlier point to correct any mistakes or travel a more preferred path?" We are in a world where urgency and desperation are the keys of progress. With each passing moment another few thousand raindrops plummet to the ground, and another few thousand possibilities are absorbed into the Earth.