Sometimes,
You realize you’re not the light
You thought you were in someone’s life.
Sometimes,
That’s alright.

'Who will love you?

Who will fight?

Who will fall far behind?”

Simple as these three lines may be, there is a lot of truth in them, something to keep in mind as we move forward in our lives.  It’s amazing what human influence in your life can accomplish, what forward momentum it can stir. Or at least, what we perceive as forward, because sometimes momentum isn’t always positive. Many times, that momentum is just digging a hole for ourselves.

And as we grow older, and start to think about what makes sense in our lives, we come to find our ideas of happiness, of sadness and of sanity are all skewed in comparison to those around us, those we care about. And as we listen, as we follow, and as we fall behind, we begin to dig those holes deeper for ourselves.

Towards mid life, if you’ve been digging, your hole is chest deep, and you have two choices: escape or keep digging. And those in that position many times tend to keep digging, not for love’s sake, or for the sake of their future, but because digging this hole is all they’ve gotten to know. For years they’ve been digging, whether it be for money, for fame, for love, and that’s all they know. And when you only know one thing, you tend to stick with it, and your choices are slim.

By the end of your life, your skin is sagging and you’ve become tired of digging. Your heart is heavy and your hands weary as you let loose your final breaths and lay back. You’re now alone in this world, under this world, away from everyone, and it’s of your own doing. Every choice you could have mad to leave the hole floods your memory, and you’re stuck knowing, from day one, you chose this. You dug your own grave.

A few young men throw gravel on you, and a headstone is placed above. A few kind words may be scrambled in, or just two dates, birth and death, and a first and last name, if you’re lucky. And the knowing truth that you brought yourself to this point.

If you’re looking for a happy story, this is not the story for you. There are so many ways to dig your own hole in your life, and you may not even realize you’re doing it. From love, to career, to the way you treat your body, your hole is being dug. You could be wiping the dirt of your hands at night, so sure you’ve done a worthwhile thing that you’d never even expect that you've been digging your own grave, plunging yourself deeper into the dirt and farther away from the life you deserve to live.

I can only speak on a small spectrum here, as I am young, and my hole shallow still. But I can say, with confidence, to find people who will fight for you, people who will love you, and get away from digging yourself into a hole. Find people who are the helping hands to pull you out, and who you can be the helping hand back to. And once you have those hands, don’t let them go.

All I can say is, if you want to be happy, stop digging. Stay together and build a treehouse instead.

I want to tell you I hate you but I can’t, because hate is pretty close to the opposite of how I feel.

Don’t take that the wrong way, I don’t love you, as I don’t love much, and am close to truth when I say my one feeling is “general apathy,”

But you were pretty cool.

And I could get used to you. And how your hair falls weightless to your shoulders, or how you mispronounce words with your not-New-England-Accent, or how your smile lights up my entire life.

I could get used to it. And I was.

Until you left. And now I need to get used to it being gone.

Looking at your picture,
Is addicting,
Narcotically,
Like staring into the bright
Reflections of true gold,
A pirate’s treasure,
But you’re not a find,
Not under the X-mark,
But more of a
“Try again, hit restart;”
You know,
Fool’s gold.

You must have had
No idea
What we had
Because you were a fool
To throw it away...



Or so I say.

Two friends sit alone outside the campus pond on a cool fall night under a blanket of distant stars and wrapped in the misleading warmth of whiskey. They don’t speak often, but pass between them a flask. After a prolonged moment of silence:

“Do you ever wonder if, in five or ten years, we’re going to look back on all of this and regret everything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, every decision you ever made here. Every fight you had, every girl you ever slept with. Every night you went out and partied instead of doing your work, or, every night you stayed in and did work while your friends lived their lives.

The major and classes you chose, and skipped. The types of beer you drank, and where you spent your free time. Every friend you made and every friend you lost. Every heart you passed by and never allowed to open up to you. Every time you opened your own heart and had it closed for you.

Really, every chance you never took, and every chance you shouldn’t have taken. The extent of your life leading up to where you will be. The choices in your life, big or small, that will have made you who you will become.”

“I guess it depends on who I’ve become.”

“What if you’ve become no one?”

“Well, in that light, I think it would be impossible not to. But no one is still someone. They’ve still been somewhere, they’ve still done something.”

Behind them the wind blew across the water, breaking the reflection of the moon into shards of glass while the whiskey ran dry.

It hurt to write before,
But now that I know
So many people see my words,
It makes every cut a little bit deeper
And reminds me
You all understand love
The same as me.