With each passing day thoughts scurry faster and holding on to ideas is a fallacy. How to stop one’s ticking mind? The obsession of thoughts and pretenses of wisdom don’t plague everyone, do they? So many people seem to be so happy, so sure of themselves in simple humanity. Simple. Yes, to be American is so simple. Americans are not free, rather, they are made within the capitalist nation and sold at face value. To be American is to worry about appearances above morality, although appearing to be a moral is part of the appearance. Morality is a side effect of appearance though, and Rigorous figured if she were to live a life that was completely hers, she would have to defy this notion and wreck it completely.



How many people are actually wise? Who considers thoughts so vast Information is not to be savored, but processed. Humans are lazy machines, and it seems with the more work to consider the more forgetting is involved.



It was initially hard to consider the idea that men were needed for a happy life, but as she realized herself, her ability to succeed in the world and hold some kind of significance, or so she thought, she knew in a man’s world she had to do what men wanted.

Riley—I wonder why you found me attractive. I know why I found you…

You were so inappropriate that I couldn’t not like you. You were the thing I needed, the fuse, providing me with a connection with which I could use to cause such destruction. You were wrong, and dark, untouchable, unmentionable and unlovable, but I loved you anyway.



He was sad, or so it seemed. I saw him for the first time I graduated college. He confided in me his ****** use. I never thought he would do such a thing.



He told me I lost weight. Afterwards, I went home and ran, skipped dinner and consciously worked out my abdominal muscles. It felt good to hear him say; it felt good to know he found me ****.



He paid. Usually I did, or we split, but since I picked him up he brought change to buy me coffee—he even had enough for a refill. We were wired, talking. He was so caffeinated and talking. He told me he was going to see a psychologist to see if he had Asperger’s . His struggle to pay attention and act appropriately in social settings made him think so—his girlfriend had spent her life around autistic people and she thought he might. I would’ve never thought he had anything of the sort, rather I thought he was merely an eccentric and that made him interesting. I asked him if he thought drugs accelerated the process, he said yes, laughing. I wondered if I did—I didn’t dare ask because I couldn’t handle the blame or shame of having once been so manipulative.

In her own way, she always wanted attention. Perhaps it’s because she was the middle child of her family. Her mother would take her out shopping when she was younger and every time her mother became distracted she would run away and hide in the clothing racks. She remembered watching her mother begin to panic and frantically search for her little girl, becoming more alarmed with each passing minute and eventually calling for help from the store employees. She would hide until her mother was on the brink of tears and only then would she emerge, smiling and innocent looking, having the pride of winning another hide and seek game her mother never knew about.



Vanity liked winning. Her definition of winning, however, was much different from that of many of her teammates. Although there were other girls who played sports, many weren’t as aggressive or skilled. The boys would often acknowledge Vanity’s gender and openly criticize her skill for it. She hated sexism—introduced to it at a young age, it took all of her energy to maintain her polite demeanor and “be the better person.” She knew, by doing this, she was betraying herself and accepting her environment.



Vanity, even at five years old, felt accomplished if she kicked the opposing team’s best player hard enough in the shins to send them out of the game. She felt especially proud when they had to be carried off the field by their coach and were crying. Vanity was not an angry little girl though; this was just how she played. When it came to competition, she fought hard. She wanted to be the best. She often played football or tag with her old brother and his friends and she felt special as the only female.



Occasionally some boy from the neighborhood would, like her teammates, criticize her for being a girl and tease her for not being able to keep up. There was one specific occasion, when she was six years old, and a boy, Justin, decided he didn’t liked her playing with the boys. He would purposely shove her and knock her over to demonstrate her physical weakness, and in so he would laugh. Vanity felt hurt that the other boys wouldn’t help her. It was only then, she learned, that no matter how mean they were to a girl, boys would stick together instead of helping a girl out. Boys stuck together and girls stuck together.



Justin pushed Vanity over one last time, hard, and once she fell to the ground and watched him laugh as he started at her brushing the dirt off herself she tried hard not to cry. Instead she rose and ran over and tackled him. Once he was on the ground she climbed on top of him and started punching his face over and over again, and only once his nose start to bleed did she alternate between scratching and punching. All the boys watched her fight and she didn’t stop hitting him until the front door opened and Justin’s mother called out too see what the raucous was.



Vanity ran home and hid under her bed until her mother found her about an hour after. While hiding under her bed, Vanity felt both scared and excited for what she’d just done. At six years old, she knew what she’d done was wrong but she felt such a rush. She justified her actions with the misogyny, however, and she felt proud that she and only she had so well defended herself. The boy deserved it. Justin was in no way better than she, and the fact that he was nine and had a ***** did not justify the way he treated her. Vanity liked to fight. She liked to keep up with the boys and beat them at their games. She couldn’t always run faster, but she could hit and tackle and was not afraid of body contact.

(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th

One of my favorite things about art is that no one can prove you’re wrong or you aren’t doing it right. It’s entirely subjective.  Of course there are snobs who consider art to be based off a standard that some elitists decided to define it as. Art can be vague, obscure, messy, precise, detailed, sharp, among many other adjectives which capture a piece and its inspiration. You can’t define art. Art is not defined of determined by conventions. Art, raw art, is creation. It’s expression. It is a language, and it connects and communicates with the viewers to whom it speaks. It is completely open to interpretation. There is no set standard to measure it by, and it is open for discussion without  being an argument. I don’t know if those who try to see art in concrete terms appreciate it much, like art always needs to have a purpose and be analyzed. Art doesn’t have to have an assigned meaning, and the belief that it does only reflects the arrogance of a critic who aims to immediately understand what may be confusing.



Colors happen accidently

In trying to find the perfect shade

Mixing and blending colors that are there

Creating ones that weren’t

The ones before now aren’t

It took me years to realize it wasn’t just me, and that the labels for women are created by men’s "standards". I wasn’t a ****. But what does that even mean? Men use “equality” to manipulate women with their standard: its fun to experiment at the time, but the girl will always be remembered as "the girl who did that," in hometown suburbia. Who’s going to end up with a woman they did nasty things to? In traditional marriages, no one wants that kind of wife. In today’s corrupt society, no one wants to know their wife was raunchy and experimental.

But what about the girls who are like that? Can’t you imagine moving away? Moving away from mistakes and stigmas and just start over? The hypocrisy and judgment against experimental women and gay men is still happening today with the "man’s" standards—the holy, good-natured man’s standards. Why are there gender roles? Why are women a minority, the curious exploring people we are? Why deny humanity for power? But humans do it to animals too! So it’s not just among gender, it’s among species! On this earth we should live with animals, but we **** and eat them for power. They **** and eat each other too, but as the knowledgeable species we are, we should respect them for there is a reason we share this earth.

But the hostility with having power is what it is to be a man. That’s how it’s been all along. And in the world men aren’t the majority, so why are they STILL treated like one? THEY are the actual minority, but they still have power! Because of religion! Straight men—who wrote the religious texts— dismissed everyone else! Slavery has been around forever! Also think monarchy and royalty—among humans we’re equal, but the power of civilization and class status and material and monetary value goes against nature. Because religious texts prove how religion started the world. These religious ideas created by certain men of misogynistic, violent, racist, homophobic creatures manipulated! Why aren’t women respected in the holy books? BECAUSE MEN WROTE THEM! And that’s why *** is reserved for marriage in religion, because inadequacies and insecurities branch off of ****** experience and the uncertain nature of what comes with exploring various lovers. It’s complicated for everybody, but men like control because they are the ultimate pessimists.

And religion has its perks by providing the one answer throughout history: "why do we exist," but it’s completely sexist! And within the misogyny formed by the different cultures of various religious men, of an evolving species, they realized manipulation could cause them power. And feminism takes away from the religion! Women are optimists, but they’re impressionable by burdens! Civil rights and democracy and spreading-the-wealth for all humankind help! But money creates problems—including environmental—on and for our earth! But why is it sexist? Because throughout the world these particular different societies created by ignorant men are still letting this happen!

And with this power, they still control women! Equality for humankind starts with feminist movements! And when it comes to sexuality, whether gay or straight, what’s the big deal? Society! Because why are so many homosexuals punished, and why are so many cultures sub missing women? Why does **** and molestation still happen? There is no greater form of disrespect towards another person! But making a consequential decision to have ***, with anyone excluding a “good man,” as according to that society, most-likely founded by a group of men its wrong? Profits don’t exist, because no single person can understand what it is that created the universe.

And hetero-****** *** isn’t supposed to be nice, because it’s aggression towards the other gender and the determination of who won the battle: the gender of child. And that could be why psychology suggests that there is an under-lying ****** nature for fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. And there is: gender aggression. But the gender that actually creates the child is the woman, and knowing this, men have made us submissive because although they’re bigger in size and aggressive, women would be the dominant side. The curiosity of the female reproduction has been a subject of fear throughout the millennia.

Bisexuals who don’t pro-create, however, usually resent straight men unless their having attractions toward them. The philosophical possibilities of experimenting with everyone to know everything is frowned upon by on all governments founded by white men. Wars have been created and people have been slaughtered! There can be peace on earth! But everyone needs to unite and eliminate prejudices and stigmas and live as people naturally, and sexually. There is balance in this universe and "living organisms" are true examples.

Women and men reproduce, to create another part of a balance. The universe, however, is impossible to ever completely understand, and the possibility of understanding it is an idealistic facade. We don’t know why women and men balance out the way they do (with an occasional mutation among humankind), but it balances with the universe. But sexuality is the purpose and the weapon, the heaven and the hell, the good and the bad and the euphoria of possibility. It’s denied in society with a civilization where one certain type of group can be the best and create power. And this balance is the key to all knowledge achieved by biology to "attract to reproduce"/"win wars". That kind of war is not in our power as humankind.

Men are a species and women are a species. To be human is to be an element of the evolving universe. Homosexuality usually isn’t a threat because it provides understanding, but in this world ruled by men, it isn’t! To compare humankind to a basic principle of the universe, the atom, a woman is a proton and a man is an electron. "Mutations" are neutrons. The man has the negative, aggressive nature and women are usually kind-minded and nurturing. But in a society where sexuality defines women, women are up against each other.

People are an element in the universe, and we reproduce due to gender aggression, or realistically, physics. We’re recycled stardust, after all. The point of this hypothesis is to provide an ideal for Utopia, where everyone is bisexual, but men and women are forever reproducing. Everyone is "wild" but wise and having *** to pro-create and understand our kind. We are evolutionary atoms. And love is two very powerful charges reacting strongly in a sequence. That’s what the universe does, it expands and creates.

The products of Earth—topography, geology, history, anatomy, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, oceanography, zoology and psychology–expand and create as well. Maybe there is a Great Creator, but it’s not comparable to the negativity created in the religions dominating societies.  It’s essentially what created the entire universe, not just what’s on earth, and not just humans. Humans, animals, plants, weather, planets and stars are all recyclables. We on earth are equally products of the universe, and after we die we’ll become something else. But religion, humanity and science aside, something made this universe. Something made our life and ability to think with secrets and balance, and whatever it is, it’s a ******* creative.

“If you had the chance to rename yourself, who would you say you were?”

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean,” the girl coughed. Her eyes were rimmed with the red of sleep-deprivation, wine and stimulants.

“Give yourself a title. A name. An alternative.” The pen was ready in her hand. What a fascinating case, she thought. This was the kind of thing she’d worked hard for, and all her efforts had been put into it. Sylvie Citron was a young psychologist who had struggled for a long time, uncertain what to make of her brilliance. Coming from a wealthy family, she never had any option besides success. Her passion for science was adopted from her father, who spent his life as a neurologist before his death; a result of an aneurism. Her mother, a former ballerina, committed suicide when she was nine. She always resented the arts, and suppressed her emotions, attributing the most valuable parts of life to reason and science. Art was for the fools, but she was fascinated by such jest. Having never gotten anything below an 85% in any subject, she prided herself on her academic competence. She was settled in her office on the corner of 15th and Patriot St., among other young professionals who were also prematurely successful and intellectually manufactured for success and nothing less.

Oftentimes, she’d see her fellow neighbors in the offices across the hall and on various floors in the elevators, in the city, and always in company. She never shared the likes of such company, but she was envious of those who effortlessly were successful and never alone. The young lawyer across the hall, Kaitlyn Stone, was an example of such. The two knew each other only in passing, but Sylvie’s ears were susceptible to all sounds of Kaitlyn’s seemingly ideal life dampening her own ion comparison, resulting in her inadequacy. Kaitlyn, the young, beautiful lawyer, hadn’t passed the necessary exams to enter the doctoral program she’d dreamed of, and therefore was stuck with no alternatives to taking the bar exam. Sylvie sneered at Kaitlyn in passing, but was greatly disturbed by the reminder that she would never be as charismatic. The girl sitting in front of her, however, was a golden opportunity.

The girl in front of her opened her mouth, only to close it. She swallowed. Her wavering eyes stared at the psychologist curiously, long enough to motivate the psychologist to inquire further but short enough to eliminate any progress.

“I can’t say.”

Sylvie readjusted her posture and leaned forward towards her client. “Hey,” she soothed. “This is a safe place. You can tell me anything.” The girl stared straight through. He brown eyes glimmered with thoughts until her sadness pushed through her dam of self-control, drowning her eyes in tears.

“You may think it depraved,” she wavered.

“You can tell me anything.” The eye-contact was impenetrable. Sylvie, while awkward in her own right, was **** good at her job, especially with her emotionally disturbed patients. It was her talent.

“I can’t say… I can’t access it in spoken word.”

Sylvie pressed her personal opinions down and focused. Sylvie, who was not exactly judgmental, found herself taking her job too seriously. She viewed the mentally ill as weak, and thought her intelligence should be used to restore the damaged human mind, to strengthen and rationalize the behavioral and cognitive components of the sick. This girl before her was hard to crack. She assessed the girl, scars on her arms from qualms causing harm, and decided to take a different approach.

“I would like you to pretend you’re standing across from someone. I want you to imagine this person as a neutral, compassionate person. Imagine you only have five minutes to speak to them. This person isn’t like anyone else, for this person possesses a trait which attracts you and compels you to trust them. You look in their eyes, you look past into their mind and see reassurance. They ask you your name. What would you say.”

The girl leaned forward on the couch, elbows on her thighs, propped so hands could support her head, holding her chin against her knuckles. Her bloodshot eyes said it before her mouth did.

“I would pull out poems. I always keep some in my purse. I have them on scratches of paper, napkins, impulsively writing as I felt it enter me. I wouldn’t need to say my name, because if you mean what you said when describing this person, they would know me. They would already know my name.”

“What would they call you?” Sylvie consciously monitored her tone, hoping to not sound too desperate. She knew girls of this kind had the ability to manipulate.

“Well, they would already know. And when knowledge is a shared thing, what point is there to say it? You can only address something so many times, but feeling it is the difference, That’s where the significance lies.”

Sylvie exhaled, trying not to sound too exasperated. It was nearing four o’ clock, and she already felt bored of the girl’s hesitation. “How does that person know who you are? How would they know what you’re called.”

Her eyes darkened, redder than ever. “They would know, because by having already known, they would feel it—not see it, and not hear it. It’s a force, not a title, not a name. It’s a being.”

“What is this being?”

“It’s my existence. It’s in my poetry.” She moved her hands and reached for the water glass on the table, took a gulp swallowed. She delicately smacked her lips, adding a seductive lick. Sylvie kept the same face, peering past the girl’s distracting gestures. “Maybe you can see it sometime.” Her voice was marked by set syllables of monotone and dull.

“Bring it next time.” Sylvie consciously tried not to rush her, but she couldn’t help but grow impatient.

The girl stood and collected her belongings. Sylvie stood also, guiding her to the door, the way she did with all patients at the end of all sessions. The girl was walking towards the doorway when she nonchalantly added “You’ll see it soon.” She left shortly thereafter, and Sylvie never saw her again.