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Oct 2017
My best friend calls me to ask me how I feel about everything
I reply with “which everything?”
There are so many everything's these days I can’t seem to keep up with them
They spin in clockwork motion
Or maybe more like a wind up toy
Twisting and turning with a click until they explode into motion that leaves me breathless
There are so many everythings
Sometimes they give me whiplash
Sometimes I try to ignore them but they grow like an alarm clock, louder and more annoying every minute.
I try to kick them down but they are resilient
I try to paint them, try to disguise them as oceans and sunsets and birthday clowns
But the paint doesn’t stick
I try to fold them up like antique clothing in an old dresser
But the mothball smell is always there in my nostrils
I try to tuck them under the bed, hide them in the closet, abandon them at the supermarket
The everythings scare me
Reminding me how I am alive
Reminding me that I can not escape them
They will always be here even when I am not
My best friend asks me how I feel about everything
I ask him which everything
If he means the everthing in which I live in the most beautiful place in the world, thousands of miles from home, I would tell him that is the one I paint as sunsets, too beautiful to ignore
If he means the one in which the boy I loved never loved me, I would tell him that is the one I that I try to hide under the bed, but it always makes its way out at night
If he means the one in which my grandfather has died recently, I would tell him that is the one I try to hide away in the dresser but I always find myself opening it back up and finding myself wrapped in his hoodie that was given to me
If he means the one in which society grows scarier everyday, I would tell him that one is the alarm clock that wakes me shaking and sweating in the middle of the night
If he means the everything in which the poetry isn’t enough anymore, I would tell him it’s the one I tried to abandon at the supermarket when buying notebooks and fountain pens and books written by Poe and Bukowski
If he means the everything in which people I trust constantly hurt me, I would tell him that is the everything I try to kick down like a stray dog, but I always find myself letting back into my house during a rainstorm
But in reality I don’t say any of this
He has everythings of his own
We all do
And they’re always here
The everything's do not leave us
They are the only friends we keep for life
They are the ugliest thing in a sunset
The most beautiful thing in a sunrise
They contradict themselves constantly
You can’t predict their next move
And they always leave me breathless
Cassandra Lane
Written by
Cassandra Lane  19/F/Honolulu, Hawaii
(19/F/Honolulu, Hawaii)   
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