Hollow

Today, as I was walking down the street in front of my house, I saw a dead tree. Well, actually, I didn't know that it was dead at first. However, as I passed by, I hit one of its branches, which promptly dropped to the ground. Then, because the tree's quiet lack of life intrigued me, I walked up to it. It was bare, of course, and the bark was a light brown, with plenty of knots and holes. I followed the meaningless path of a lone ant up the trunk, and then sat down. For some reason, this spot, this thing, intrigued me.

First, I thought about the ant. Why was he here? Surely, as part of the incredible unstoppable force that is nature, he knew that the tree was dead. So why, then, did he continue to climb toward some unknowable goal? He must have been sent there, by his queen, for some mission of reconnaissance. Or was he a forsaken poet, one thinking blip of individuality in a monotonous ant civilization. Better still, a scorned lover, of his queen, perhaps, exiled to a dead, barren wasteland for loving she who is the mother of us all. As he reached the apex of his climb, he turned, and began the journey down. Then, it didn't matter as much, because he was gone, disappeared in a lapse of attention on my part.

Next, I contemplated the tree itself. The bark was still alive, or appeared so, so why was the tree dead. An idea struck me, and I knocked on the trunk of the tree like it was the door of a dear friend. A second later, a distorted version of my knock came back to me. Hollow. The tree was completely hollow. This struck a cord with me, and a sudden desire to wax metaphysical came over me. Was this not a metaphor for our own lives? Alive on the outside, but hollow and hurting on the inside? Can we revive ourselves, and if we do, what happens to that ant, that small person depending on our presence as a dead area to fulfill some goal? Is everything we do selfish; can we help ourselves and others at the same time.?

Then my head started to hurt, and I felt that my blood sugar was low. It was lunchtime, and my stomach was cursing me for my lack of punctuality. As I walked into my house, I stopped. I looked at the door I held in my hand and thought. Then I knocked one time. Hollow.

Love Song (sort of)

Here's a little song I wrote. I hope that you'll sing it note for note. But seriously, enjoy.

Wait for me lonely

By the old shady tree

And you'll be my only

Forever we'll be.

Wait for me never

Through good times and bad

Say that you'll never

We'll never be sad

(Chorus)

Oh, it's a winding road

Oh, it's a narrow goal

Our love was perfect

And our love was strong

But our love was ended

By the end of this song.

(End Chorus)

Talk to me empty

Of commonplace things

Make me a promise

You never will keep

Talk to me lying

Of beautiful things

Your virtue was flying

A young man your wings.

Chorus

Lie to me beauty

Whisper to him

Shirking your duty

Pursuing a whim

Lie to me always

If love is to last

Walking two pathways

Your own net you cast

Chorus

Cry to me after

Your lie is revealed

Say that your laughter

Was always your shield

Cry to me slowly

As I walk away

Feeling so lonely

Alone I will stay

(Ending, repeat 2X)

Oh, it was never slow

Oh, we reap the things we sow

Our love was perfect

And our love seemed strong

But our love was shaken

And then it was gone.

Stan

          Stan sat up, and realized that he wasn’t awake. Well, gradually realized. His head was fuzzy, but malt liquor at 1 in the morning always brings regret. Evidence of the party the night before lay scattered around his small New York apartment. A strange stain on the wall opposite his bed caught his attention. It was a strange dull purple against the faded brown paint of his walls. Looking at it reminded him of vomit, which led to further reminiscing of his late-night excesses. Shutting his eyes for a moment, Stan tried to fall back asleep. It was then that he remembered the reason that he was semi-conscious. A burning pain behind his pelvic bone drove him out of bed and into the bathroom.
          His bladder relieved, Stan could now think a little bit better. Which is why he was startled to find a woman in his bed. She was petite, a brunette, with a smooth, unwrinkled face that told him she was in her twenties. Feeling confused and uncertain, he approached the bed, then stopped. Working its way through his swamp of alcohol-induced brain mush was a memory. It was a romantic comedy, a movie he saw back when taking a girl to a chick flick was a required, twice monthly ordeal in his family. Recalling a certain scene, Stan backed out of the room, heading toward the kitchen.
          Passing a small analog clock on a haphazardly placed table, Stan realized that it was 4 o’clock. 3 hours of sleep. Not much, but about normal for his fast-paced, competitive world of Internet entrepreneurship. The truth is, oftentimes he couldn’t sleep because of his memories, haunting him always. Memories of faces, places, birthdays, pain, happiness, a smile, a scowl of disdain. He kept them all, helping and hurting, a thorn in his side pinning his soul to his limbs. Without their mixed blessing, he didn’t know how to live.
          Reaching the kitchen, Stan stretched out his arm and grabbed a bowl.  What to make? Cereal was obvious, but not special. Putting the bowl back, he picked up a pan. Scrambled eggs was the answer. It showed care, but wasn't to hard. Looking in the refrigerator, Stan was disappointed. He retrieved the bowl.
         Cereal finished, Stan walked back to his bedroom. He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, then thought better of it. His thick brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his face showed evidence of some unfortunate circumstances from the party. He went in his restroom, splashed water on his face, and fell asleep.
         When he woke up, she was gone. In the kitchen, the cereal lay untouched. His apartment was just as messy as it had been, so Stan began the long process of restoring it to his middle-aged bachelor standards of perfection. His job, always waiting, glowing on his laptop screen, captured his attention for the rest of the day. In the end, it was almost like the last night hadn't happened. But, that night, Stan lay awake in the darkness, remembering the bowl of cereal.