"True Joy, believe me, is a serious thing."

Joy is seemingly superfluous. Scientifically speaking, one can live without it; it is not a necessity of survival as is breathing, eating, or sheltering oneself. Rather, joy is that natural way in which we learn to shelter ourselves from the storm of suffering.

Joy is that intensely indescribable light, buried in some integral but decentralized part of the body, which makes one feel most alive.

This summer, I sought the true significance of pure, irreproducible joy. I searched for meaning at every opportunity, and I discovered passion, consolation, and unadulterated bliss. This summer, I spent my free time feeling alive, and it has been the most rewarding pursuit of my young life.

In August, I spent a full night lying on the shores of Catalina Island, watching the marvelously incandescent stars scuttle slowly across a deep navy sky. I spoke softly to a friend, exchanging experiences and philosophical ideas that I’d thought I may never utter aloud, discovering that I had only withheld them because they deserved the reverence of such a moment. I watched the moon poke itself up over the water, its bright reflection mirrored in a conversely dark ocean, and migrate through the galaxy above me. Finally, the chilling night became a warm morning, and I watched that moon replaced by the sun, as it rose over the horizon. I received a slight sunburn on my cheek after falling asleep in the earliest hours of summer heat, a mark of more than my simple existence, a mark of my having lived, and breathed, and reveled in the splendor of that sun.

This year, I’ve found majesty in places I previously found triviality. This year, I’ve learned that I love intense games of scrabble and winter sweaters and yoga, but that I do not like Pad Thai. Contrarily, I too have learned that I love introspective thought, and I love summer tank tops, and I love the soreness in my legs when I’ve neglected to stretch after a long run.

This year, I filled my life with exertive participation in life, and in it I have found such profundity. I’ve found joy in seeking opportunities through which I can experience and understand the rare and miraculous moments that pervade existence.

Ultimately, I’ve found that joy is more than just a nice feeling; the ability to pursue true joy is an invaluable gift.

2012

My Older Sisters

My mother always told me,

“You are so stupidly sensitive,”

So silly-

My stupid

Crybaby,

Baby girl.

Sit up.

Don’t cry.

Napkin on your lap.

Baby-

Nose in the air.

Lest you become aware

Of that which is below you

By birth.

Lest you let

Poison

Permeate your lungs.

Sometimes when I am alone,

I sit and I cry,
I slouch and I weep-

Dangling dirty boots,

I know I don’t look so pretty

Nor refined,

Like mother likes,

And even when I am alone,

I feel her pressing disapproval.

I am ashamed of my

Emotive face.

And according to mother,

Shameful’s how it should be.

I number each tear

As they fall into my lap,

Over such stupidly silly things,

The first is over a year passing,

Over a change from single-digit age

To a daunting double-

As I have three sisters
And I have seen them all become

Women.

The second is for my oldest sister,

The one whom I’ve heard screaming.

Long after dark, when she comes home

With sullen, haunting eyes,

She’ll press me harshly to her chest,

And whisper me mistakes-

Her burning cheek pressed to my roots,

I stare at bruises up her thighs

With feeble voice and jagged breath,

“Be smart, baby. Be wise,”

Through her shaking, trembling, convulsing,
I feel not one single hot tear-

Vehemently she cleaves to me,

Pleading regret into my hair,

With one last imploring, beseeching whimper,

She chokes out her indelible words,

“Baby, please,

Learn from me, learn from this,

And take only a man

Without a temper,”

The third is for my middle sister,

The one with sleepless skin.

As she tenderly cradled her belly,

I remember her new softened eyes,

On the night my father’s gaze found fire

And mother led me from the kitchen-

Sometimes in my own bed at night

I hear the fugue in reprise,

“What were you thinking, you selfish girl?”

Words subordinate to piercing cries.

Through her screaming, sobbing, yelping,

Father paints love into sin,

Then comes the sound I can never forget,

The snap of leather on skin,

“She will marry up, if she keeps herself in line,”

Come the coddling words of my mother-

But some nights I hear her,

Sobbing still,

As her room shares

Walls with mine.

The fourth is for my third sister,

The one who looks without seeing.

On the night that she escaped herself,
With wet and twinkling eyes,
She told me through staccato breaths
Of the man with unforgiving hands-
Emotion thrashes at her features
No longer hypnotized,
Exhaling, she squeezes shut her lids,
Betraying daylight's careful guise,
Through her cowering, struggling, blanching,

The tragedy dribbles through quivering lips,

With the painstaking image of a relentless grasp

Constraining inviolably virgin hips,

Her pervading phrase still renders me sleepless

“Sexual does not always mean loving”

Our eyes meet,

But she does not see me

Through tears both silent and ceaseless

The fifth is selfish,

A tear of wondering-

For what will become of me,

For it seems

Becoming a woman

Means receiving good reason

To cry to yourself

Tonight.

But you should feel shame,

Your tears are so crude.

Your pain, so unladylike.

The sixth is for my mother

Who has tried to keep us

Pretty.

For in primping and shushing

And slapping at our wrists,

She knows not

What she’s done.

2012

Possibility's Tangible Manifestations

I want to play that night again

But without
The fears and hinderances
Of tables and teas
Creating space between us.

I want to delve straight into your eyes

And feel the wordless exchange

From the unbroken contact of your gaze
To let beats pass
In order to tell you
What it is I cannot articulate.

I want to sit on the carpeted floor with

Your breath like warm tea

And your embrace like blankets
Covering me against the cold
That swept so swiftly
In through under the door frame.

I want to laugh
Sometimes at movies or TV shows,
And other times,
Nervously
Through rosy cheeks
And unbounded emotion,
As I learn how real potential
Manifests itself in a heart.

I want to trust
Unrestricted,

I want to be assured
That I will never again
Be called

By an ex-lover’s name.

I want to see your face again

The way it was that night.

In the dark cold hours of the morning

The sky will grow light

And my body grows weak from lack of sleep

My eyes may be sullen, and tired, and spent

But I know you’ll still be looking back.

I’ve decided I don’t want to live that night again

But I want a myriad of new nights

Some with tables and some without

But always this indescribable magnetic pull

between us

In the vulnerable hours of the night
Which rarely lend themselves to rationality,
I have decided.

I want a life with you.

Erasing

Twelve little houses,
All in a row,
Comprise a semi-circle
Like the half-moon

That graced the quiet

Hours we spent

Awake in

Open air

The night previous.

Looking up,

Grounded in body,

Unbounded in mind,

My view has widened.

The hands aren’t yours

and I feel bad,

and I feel proud,

Because I like that

So soon.

And I’ve lost you,

And your sour tequila,

And your ache-y records,
And the poison

You breathe at night.

Your gravity,
So grave a weight,
Settles in each time
It falls silent
For a moment.

Although it's only a moment,
I wish the grass
Might swallow me
Entirely.

I wish to sink away
And reside here
Beneath the waves.
Woken gently
By a subtle
Streaming sun,
In the forgiving air.

I feel your grip
For a terrifying moment
But the salt and the stars
Whisk it away
Just as quickly
As it came

I now know,
The panic

You instilled

Is no longer
My present tense.

I promise

I won't erase you,

But I cannot promise
You residence
In my mind
Any longer,

Finally I must assert myself.
And you will accept my refusal.

Your oppressive hold
Has been replaced
By some disembodied
Gentle hand,
Shifting a thumb
Across my palm.

I could not see
Who exactly they
Belonged to,
These caring,

worthy eyes,
Shining bright
And sympathetic
And honest.

But I could see
They were waiting
For me;
They are in

My someday.
When I am ready
To return their
Thoughtful gaze.

I saw into these eyes
And I hoped they'd belong
To someone full of light
Possessing a fascination in her heart,
But hope is so grave a danger,
So slippery a slope.
Too terrifying and deceptive an art.

Still,
You will be a whisp

Of who I once was
And I shall reconstruct
Myself
Of newfound,
Thriving,
Unimpeded
Hope.

2012

Your Presence Like Blankets

I am clothed in you,

Wrapped tightly
In your presence
Like Blankets.

Everything on me is warm
But the toes
At the end of my boots.
However,
Today it does not matter. 

It’s as if my whole body’s been
bundled up in sweaters
When you say my name
And do not realize,
Or when you pay me
Such sincere
Kind words. 

I am encompassed in your comfort,
Day to day.
When I awake you are there
Like the unfailing comforter
That embraces me each morning. 

I carry you with me like
A big toasty winter coat
And when a gust of wind
Comes rolling through
You are there
To cover me.

I wear your warmth so often
My cheeks almost begin to sear,
But I love feeling
The heat under my freckles
Of skin perennially tinged pink.

And my heart,
Today
Is the warmest of all. 

Still,
The tip of my nose is chilled. 

I try to ignore
The tickle at the end
Of cold fingers and toes
The chill that resides
At the uncoverable
Corner of my nose.

The fear will not take me
It is far too feeble to endure
As I have something much stronger
Even if I'm stunted
In the articulation.

What I have
is your presence like blankets.

In due time
I will buy thicker socks,

I will learn
Not to forget my gloves
On the kitchen counter,
Anymore.

I will not need to ignore
The chill of fear
chasing down my spine
In the shiver of the night
When the temperature dips

And my heart,
That day,
When I may give it without constraint,
Will be the warmest of all. 

My Facetious Facade of a Face.

What’s so wonderful

About my eyes

Outlined?

Am I more,

Am I more

Interesting

Feminine

Lovely,

With lips redder?

With eyelashes longer?

With cheeks false flushed?

Am I more

Womanly

Intelligent

Sweet,

With freckles concealed?

With eyebrows artificially arched?

If I were

To blow you a kiss

With lips so

Saturated red,

And eyelids

Shimmering,

Deep mysterious gold,

On a night like tonight-

Pregnant with possibility,

Would you kick me

To the pavement

With a brutal half-goodbye

To wake and find

That I am more

Than my factitious face?

Aren’t I more,

Aren’t I more

Than a factitious face?

2011

Coming-of-Age

Before discrediting the Coming-of-Age story as definitively trite or over-wrought, I beg skeptics to entreat the 15-year-old boy upon his first revolutionary reading of The Catcher in the Rye. I have continually turned to Coming-of-Age literature so as to learn from my experiences, so as to learn how it is one may learn from experience, and ultimately to feel as if I am not alone.

Young adult literature opens doors, expands horizons, and reveals universal truths that sit dormant, directly beneath the adolescent’s nose; at least, they have revealed many of the truths that were previously concealed beneath my own.

At age twelve, doctors uncovered the brain tumor that would render my mother’s invasive brain surgery imperative; J.K. Rowling did not mock the Social Anxiety Disorder I developed that year. At age fifteen, doctors declared a close friend’s valiant struggle with lung cancer to be a losing battle, predicting her premature passing that summer; John Green did not mock my anger, despondency, or lack of faith that year. At age seventeen, I acknowledged the sexual and psychological abuse I endured as a child; finally, Stephen Chbosky did not mock my fear or distress upon coming to terms with the demoralizing experiences that permeate my past.

When explored at the opportune time, a novel can provide solace, sympathy, belonging, or greater understanding of the world. In the face of society’s tendency to downplay the intricacies and anxieties of growing up, young adult fiction performs an imperative task in reaching out a daring hand, taking hold of the most real and raw components of being a person, pinpointing the most vulnerable and truthful endeavors set forth by way of the human condition, and capturing them. Those endeavors, of course, are the years spent figuring out what it means to be a person at all.

My impassioned inclination toward young adult literature stems from the invaluable assets it has provided me: a greater sense of the world, an acute understanding of who I am as a person, a sympathetic acknowledgement of my own feelings, observations, and insights, and finally, the ability and direction required to chart a course for my own future.

Today, I am here. I am seventeen. I am alive. I am amidst the both beautiful and turbulent inundation of adolescence, and the painful components of my young life permeate my memories of the past just as vividly as moments that remind me with such clarity how wonderful it is to be alive. Some fail to see that an entire life is simply one overarching Coming-of-Age story. The first twenty years may be more notably tumultuous, but that does not mean that upon completing them we will ever cease to learn, or grow, or understand the world more deeply or more comprehensively. At least, this is what I have learned from young adult literature, and this, essentially, is the reason that I one day plan to write it.
2012