Waiting for Nothingness

I tell myself that I have no hope left and that I never
had any. But deep inside me, even if I don't want to
admit it myself, I silently wish, pray and hope that
you will return. I try to understand why I want this.
Do I love you? Are you the only thing that can fill this
void that is consuming me? I don't know how I feel.
Some days I'm consumed by sadness and I wonder when will
it get better. I don't like feeling this way. I have never
felt this way. The pressure in my chest, the weakening of
my heart, the tightening of my throat, and all because
I miss you. Other times I wonder if I only feel this way
because I want to. Maybe I am a masochist, making heartache
out of nothing. If I rationalize, I have a long list of why
I'm better off:

1. You never cared.
2. You lack personality.
3. We never interacted on an intellectual level.
4. You made me feel insecure.
5. You left me out and never even tried to integrate me into your life.
6. You never gave me a chance.
7. You're selfish.

...Well, you get the point. It is quite torturous to list
everything that you are that hurt me and made me feel
insignificant. I just can't understand why, knowing all
this, I am wasting energy and missing out in life because
of you. Or why I keep on slicing, dicing, dissecting,
rationalizing everything that we NEVER had. Maybe if
I had done this, or maybe if I had done that, it would
have been differently. I gross myself out. I'm not even
rational! But I guess it doesn't matter.

I'm still here, thinking, hoping and wanting what was
never mine and what will never be mine. I wonder, if
you were to return would I feel the same way? Are you
one of those things that I want because I can't have
and I will no longer want once I possess? Too bad I
won't find out. Actually, I just did realize that I
never wanted you either, not in that way at least.
It was just a new experience. Had I had you, I probably
would have grown bored. I grow bored so easily. I was
bored from day one. You were right to act surprised
when I said I'm a good listener, because I wasn't
with you. It was hard to keep focused when feigning
interest. I tried to care, but monotone always does
me in - yawn. I do feel bad about that. But because
I'm so "nice and sweet", I tried to deny it though
it was so often pointed out to me by my mom -
"no te gusta ese muchacho, verdad", "I like him mom,
why do you say that?" "Porque vos no te vez excited
por el para nada" - by my friends, "he bores you huh?
He doesn't seem to be in your intellectual level" "um,
he's, um... Not dumb" I was always defending myself for
not showing interest or excitement about you. I do crack
me up sometimes. I think I'm just one of those people who
loves feeling conflicted - a tortured soul. I always did
have a soft spot for tragedy. Who needs Freud? Homeboy's
got nuttin’ on me! I can psychoanalyze me better then he
could. I wonder if Carl Jung could do better? Probably not,
after all Freud schooled him and I schooled him. Ok, no
I didn't but I get me. I love realizing the obvious. I do
have fond memories of you and of your dimples. I think you
are, overall, a good person with good a heart and noble
intentions. I enjoyed our time together and wouldn't
take it back. But, yay, I'm back! So now, let's play Balls!!!

The Rise and Downfall of the Hopeful

When does one begin to lose hope? How hard does life have to
kick one down, disappoint one, before hope is gone? And more
importantly, once hope is lost, is it ever found? I've been
thinking about this as the year finally comes to an end. This
has most definitely been what I've been referring to as an
"awful year". From January through December, it has been composed
of stress and disappointments. Although I wouldn't consider
myself naïve, I do possess many innocent qualities that would
classify me as such. For a skeptic cynic, I'm quite trusting,
hopeful and optimistic. I don't think people are out to get me
and tend to give everyone the benefit of the doubt until they
hurt me, which sadly, happens too often. Sometimes the art of
loving comes too easily to me. I tend to love too quickly, too
freely, and without expectations. I don't mean a romantic-type
of love by the way(when it comes to romance I'm actually pretty
closed off - yeah, I'm a chicken), but just love, love. Love for
humanity. I'm compassionate, except for when I'm angry, then I
don't give a damn until my angers wears off, then I mope around
feeling bad for whatever it is I thought, did, or said. I'm
sympathetic and hate to see people suffer. I am much more
sensitive than I let on. Combine that with my desire to please
people, to make them happy at my expense, and my extremely
considerate way of being (which has got to go as most people
are selfish,inconsiderate animals), and I have to wonder why
I'm surprised this year was so bad.

Whatever it was, it was a year of significant growth, emotional
maturity, and one where I learned many valuable lessons. I don't
regret any of the experiences I went through this year, but they
are not what I hoped for for myself. I know I sound cliché, but
things are not always what they appear to be. Right now, I feel
dejected and tired and almost hopeless. I tell myself that if I
could go back in time and do this year over again with the
knowledge that I have now, I would. I tell myself what I would
do differently and how I would react to certain circumstances.
I tell myself I would be more selfish, more demanding, less
flexible, and more ME. But when I stop and really review my year,
I see that yes, it has been difficult, but I have been through
so much more and haven't lost hope, so why now? Much of what's
been bad for me has been because other people don't live up to
expectations. I can't change anyone and am only responsible
for my actions. So, why should I torture myself for the way
others have made me feel? They don't care, cloaking their
stupidity, selfishness and indifference with silent, emotionless
games.

Instead of focusing on what I think ruined my year, I should
focus on what I learned. The main thing I'm taking with me
is to take chances; life is a gamble and about taking risks.
Yes, it is scary but like one of them Roosevelts said, there's
nothing to “fear but fear itself." Taking a chance is liberating
and empowering. Fear is lack of faith, instinct is inherent.
So have faith, follow your instincts and keep on hoping!

Tangled Limbs

We woke up like that every morning for six or seven years,
tangled limbs. We were two separate entities, two different
personalities, but at night, asleep, we became the same girl.
Lost in our dreams, we would find each other, two sisters.
In deep slumber we would hold on for dear life. Awake we would
fight, call each other names, throw things - hairbrushes,
kicks, punches, insults. But at night, even when we claimed to
hate each other, our subconscious would seek shelter in the
other, hiding from the nightmares that prosecuted us. I remember
waking up, opening my eyes and seeing her staring back at me.
It was creepy. In undisguised disgust, we'd push each other off,
untangle our limbs, resume the yell-fest of the night before,
and silently continue to love each other, while proclaiming:
"ew, get off me, cochina", or "gross, you're hella gay!" (I know,
that term is un PC, however, we were young and didn't know any better).

To this day, she's the only person I can share a bed with and
fall into a deep sleep without any inhibitions or worries. On
the rare occasions that we see each other, and the even rarer
occasions when we share a bed, we are once again transported
back to our childhood. Even though we no longer wake up with
intertwined arms and legs, we still become one girl, we lose
ourselves in each other, we surrender to our dreams, and let
our sleep take over.

Thick Love

The other day, a friend shared that she had recently had an
abortion. Her confession led me to think of the choices one
is forced to make in life. I honestly don't know what I would
do were I to be in her shoes. Or how I would feel. I'm pro-choice.
I firmly believe it's a woman's prerogative to decide whether
or not she wants to carry and bring life into this world. Whether
she is a rape victim, a stereotypical sorority/party girl, or
a newly-wed, the choice should be available. I'm not advocating
irresponsibility by any means, I don't think abortion should be
sought out every time one neglects to use protection, but sometimes
that seems to be the only option.

I'm 26 years old. An adult. I'm responsible, educated, and have
a steady job. However, I'm not ready to be a mother. Would I
be able to do it? Sure. Do I want to be a mother? Of course.
I want between 2 and 4 kids (so 3!). But, under the "right"
circumstances. By "right", I mean I would prefer to be happily
married, comfortably settled and financially secure. I would at
least want to be in a committed relationship where there is mutual
love and respect and one where a child, whether planned or
unplanned, was conceived in love. A woman's life is difficult.
This world is prejudiced. Being pregnant and unmarried and even
more, unattached to any one men, gifts a single mother with a
scarlet letter. True, its such a common occurrence now that the
stigma is not as obvious. But it is still present in the questioning,
in the pitiful looks, in the subtle avoidance. It's not an
impossible burden, but it is one which many women, myself included,
don't desire. If that were my dilemma, and I kept the child,
my life would change overnight. No more traveling, no more dancing
at Bruno's, no more sleeping in on coveted Sunday mornings.
The chances of falling in love would be, sadly, decreased by 95%.
And the baby daddy life? Well, that wouldn't change much.
He would, hopefully, dutifully send his child support check as
he traveled, dated, partied and lived. He would have less money
to throw away, but he would still be free.

I guess in the end, the choice comes down to morality/ethics
and/or religion. I don't know. If one considers the type of
life that child will live, maybe they are better off not bringing
them into the world. There is so much poverty and sadness already.
There are so many children without parents, without guardians,
without a home. One can, however, argue that every life has a
purpose and it isn't one person's decision to play God, to decide
whether or not someone has the right to be here. Abortion can be
done out of love though, not just selfishness. But, can it be
justified? In Beloved, Sethe kills her baby in order to save
her from slavery. The only way she feels she is able to both
prove her unconditionally fierce mother's love and protect her
child from a destiny of non-living is by murdering her. The past
returns to haunt her, when out of outrage, confusion and loneliness,
her baby manifests its spirit into a body and returns. Sethe's
re-memory, which she is unable to flee from, is made reality with
Beloved's presence. Is that what abortion would feel like? Is
one consumed by guilt? Engulfed by sadness, regret? The feelings
intertwining together, becoming stronger everyday, sometimes
maybe not even thinking about the life lost, but never
forgetting until finally, they become real.

Abortion is such a polemic topic and a choice that cannot be made
unless one is in the position to have to make it. If I had to make
that decision, I honestly have NO idea what I would do. Part of me
thinks I would not keep it for the obviously selfish reasons. But
another part of me feels like I couldn't terminate a life, at least
not by choice. Raised Catholic, my favorite argument to use is that
of free-will, which I exercise every chance I get. But a choice as
life-changing as this is one where I would probably wish I were docile, obedient, a sheep that follows order, therefore releasing myself of any and all responsibility.

Chico

I saw Chico today. He's my friend. Kinda. I don't know him too well but I've seen him around since I started working here, so it's been close to 2 and half years now. He's homeless. Or he was. I stopped and talked to him for a bit, maybe 10 minutes or so. He was telling me how he was given an apartment and doesn't have ot be out in the cold anymore. He says how now only pan handles to pay for his rent. I guess he gets some sort of government-issued check, which goes toward his rent too. I tihnk he said he pays about $7.75 or $70.75, probably $70.75 (it was loud - middle of the financial district, traffic, people, noise pollution, but I am a good listener). He's funny. Often times, as people walk past him he'll say, "Any loose twenties?" Whenever he says that to me, I always say the same thing, "I wish." He always compliments people, calls them angels and beautiful, even if they're neither. He's kind and happy. He always offers people a smile and if you talk to him and ask him how he's doing, he says "Blessed as always." I wish more people were like him. I wish I were more like him. Sometimes I wake up and I'm not happy. I think how life sucks and how I would rather be in bed. Instead, I should think how blessed I am to be alive, to have the opportunity to live another day and experience the miracle of the creation that we human beings are.

Today I told him that next I have money in my wallet, I would give it to him. He said he doesn't care for money, that he prefers smiles. "Well, smiles I have!" I told him with a wide grin. He made my day. He made me feel blessed and not because I have so much more then he does, but just because he reminded me that life is precious. He advised me to not take anything for granted. He's from Texas, but doesn't go home because his family is all gone. He says we don't appreciate what we have until it's gone. He's right. We sometimes focus so much on what we can't have, that we forget to acknowledge the value of what we do have. He shared a bit of what his life is like. He says most people are nice, but once in a while he'll encounter some that are spiteful. He's been spit at, yelled at, told to get a job. He says he can't work, that he's arm is broken and he has many internal medical issues. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. I'm currently reading a book titled "Poor People", which basically tries to discover why there are poor people and focuses on third world nations. The reasons some people give for their poverty are interesting. Some people accept it as their fate, saying it's because they were bad in their previous life. Others blame it on society, on the rich, on their inability to work due to mysterious illnesses. Truth is subjective. My truth may be your myth. Chico's reasoning may be an excuse for many, but it's a reality to him.

The Rose

I saw the man again today. The one who roams around the
ferry building offering roses in exchange of... I'm not
really sure what. Money? Comfort? Kindness? He walks around
in normal clothes. They look clean. He looks clean. One of
his ears is pierced and he wears a big ring on one of his hands,
don't remember which. He weeps openly, shamelessly.
Everyone turns away. He's approached me before. I normally
don't have my wallet and when I do, I don't have cash.
I'm typically cash-less. Mari saw him the other day.
She mentioned how incredibly sad he looked and the
cruel conditions humanity faces. He made her sad.
He makes me sad.

Today, thinking of Mari and overwhelmed by the heartbreak
he exudes, I gave him all the money I had (it wasn't much).
He didn't give me a rose, just took the change and stood
there in front of me, still crying. I asked him if he was okay.
He gave me a bewildered look and replied with a simple "No."
I asked him what was wrong, he replied he was alone and
hungry. He signaled to his back pocket and made an eating
motion. I didn't know what else to say, what else to offer.
I just said all that I could at that time, "good-luck".
He looked at me, turned and disappeared around the way,
leaving me behind in a labyrinth of thoughts and emotion.

Ode to My Cookie

Crumbly, moist, and warm,
You make my heart jump.
My eyes glow at the sight of you
And my stomach roars with delight.

Michael Tokarz the Tyrant
Is being a punk
Trying to keep me
Away from my love

But I can resist,
That is no joke.
All it takes
Is a little bit of self-control

La Lluvia

Its raining today. I love the rain. I love getting wet. I love jumping
into puddles. I love making a giant SPLASH!! I love the smell of the
earth as the first drops of water kiss its dry surface. I romanticize
rain. It brings life. I love the way rain quiets everything down, it
sends people running into the cave of their thoughts, sends them
running into Plato's cave; makes them sink into their darkest place in
search of the light that will lead them out of the tunnel they've
trapped themselves in.

Whenever it rains, I become someone else. I become somewhat
withdrawn, somewhat lost in my own thoughts. My usual silly
daydreams are replaced by serious matters, sometimes personal
ones, other times not. But usually dark. It's like the rain,
with its somber and moody nature, gives one a free pass to
reject the expected cheerfulness of a sunny day. It removes
the censorship from one's feelings and allows one to feel
rawly, to be devoured by sadness, swallowed by emptiness,drank
by despair and in the end, once the rain fades away into a
rainbow, one is once again spat out whole, renewed, reborne.

Of a Homeless Life

It was a cold, foggy afternoon, and as I walked down crowed Powell Street, I noticed a man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, holding a cup with money in it as he violently shook. People, many of whom were tourists, turned away from him, afraid his poverty, tragedy and despair might tub off on them.

He had on a black and dirty worn-out jacket, ripped blue jeans and old, white Reeboks that seemed better suited for a garbage dump than for someone's feet. His face, bright red from exposure to the sun and wind, was marked with deep lines of worry and pain. His eyes looked distant and vacant, as though focused on something only he could see. As he opened his cracked, chapped lips, I could see some empty spaces where his teeth once were. His black, curly hair was the only way to tell he wasn't as old as he seemed, for he didn't have a great deal of silver white strands.

We fear what we do not wish to become. In this one man, we see the tragedy and suffering of the world. Day by day, as he struggles to live, we struggle not to become what he is.

I have just seen another homeless person today. This time a woman. Once again, people turned away from her as she hungrily begged for something to eat. Sure, she may be homeless, but she is just like us. She gets hungry, cold, sad, angry, and maybe, sometimes even happy.

Many of our minds are programmed to think the same thing every time we come across the homeless. We think that he or she deserves it. We assume that just because they're homeless, they are not only lazy drug addicts, but drunks, sluts and good-for-nothings. We are wrong to judge and condemn. We know nothing of these people. We don't know who they are or what they did to deserve such a fate. How do we know for certain they are lazy and don't try to improve their lives? Some are disabled and others may not be given the opportunity to find employment. When they beg for money and food, we don't have to turn the other way and run. There is a thing called charity. One need not open his wallet and give his latest paycheck, but a few cents wouldn't hurt. From past experiences, I have learned that a simple smile or friendly hello can make a world of a difference in a person's life. Sometimes a smile can make a person feel far better than money ever could. Like my friend Vladimir wrote to me in his email the other day, "...siempre acuerdate que una sonrisa habre el paraiso de cualquier alma... asi que a sonreir..."

As human beings, we don't only turn away from the unknown, but also from what we fear might one day be us. When we turn away from the homeless, without reaching out a helping hand, we are actually turning away from our fear. We don't want to live through what the homeless face every day. Hunger. Solitude. Despair. Poverty. And, instead of helping them, we kick them down, and little by little, help them die.

Nightmare

Having arrived home after our usual Sunday family outing, all three of us children gathered in out parents' room. The window was open, bringing in a light breeze into the otherwise stuffy and hot Nicaraguan night. But something about the ambiance felt different. I could feel it, almost touch the thickness of the tension that marked its presence in the room, almost smell that stench of fear and cowardice that slowly seeped in to perfume the air of until then, a happy home. I gazed outside, where our mother's purse flew through the air. In the living room our father screamed. I rushed to his side. That's when I saw him. The Devil. Only he didn't look like I had always pictured him to be. He wasn't red, nor did he have horns and a tail. He was a kid with red hair and freckles and wore a baseball cap. He held our father in his arms, his claws tearing at our father's bleeding flesh. I jumped into action, willing to do anything in order to save him. Grabbing a rosary, I repeatedly slapped it across the Devil's face. As the holy rosary burned his malignant visage, he let go of our father and glared. Then, running out of the house, his eyes met mine and he vowed, "Me voy, pero volvere."

I was six years old when this nightmare, the scariest one I've ever had, came to me. I was yet to experience any hardships and still believed in happily-ever-afters. My world was Utopia, a Candy Land composed of dreams, games and love. I belonged to a loving family, had tons of playmates, too many toys and my innocence. I was happy. But this nightmare came, foreshadowing the end of my, until then, fairy-tale life and the end of my parents' once blissful marriage.

The divorce did not happen right away. No, it took two years before our mom was able to escape her hellish marriage and bring us kids to the United States. But during those two years she encountered enough beatings, humiliations and attempts against her life to last a few lifetimes.

Almost overnight, for reasons I am not aware of, our father became an alcoholic. He picked up the vice, which was followed by the affair and an innocent bastard child. In a small town where everyone makes it their business to know your business, our mom tried hard to ignore all the fingers pointed at her. Even us kids didn't escape it. After school, parents looked at us with pity as they picked up their children. Our mom moved us of our now broken-home and into her parents', who even though they resided in San Francisco, still owned a house in Nicaragua.

Living away from our father didn't keep him from tormenting us. Showing up drunk on an almost nightly basis, he would beat her. He would grab her 5'1 frame against his 6'4 one, and hit and offend her. "You're not woman enough to keep me or any other man around," he would say, piercing her heart with every insult. We were young, but neither deaf nor blind. We could hear the screams, see and touch the bruises that had become permanent on our mother's cinnamon skin.

Night after night he would come. Nothing could keep him away. The beatings and insults were now a ritual. I still remember things he would say, things I wish I could forget. His words still haunt me, instill fear in me, fill me with anger. Every night was a nightmare we never woke up from. But one night was worse than any other. That night, Mimi, our paternal grandmother, took my sisters and me home only to arrive to an empty house with our mom no where to be found. After some investigation, one of our neighbors said our mom was hiding from him, our daddy, who came by threatening to shoot her. That night was hell, driving around in search of her, hoping and praying that he hadn't found her. I remember feeling numb and useless, knowing I could do nothing to help her, but willing to take her place to save her. Our granny, sweet old woman that she was, made the horror even more potent when she said the cruelest thing you could say to three little girls in fear of their mother's life - "Your dad probably already killed her, you are now orphans. But don't worry, I'll drop you off at the orphanage where the kids nobody wants are." I don't recall where or when we found our mom, only remember the relief that he had not gotten to her. That night, I knew that red-headed devil kept his promise - he had our father.

Not too long after, we escaped the country along with our mother and moved to San Francisco on December 13th, 1991. The experience we lived through, made me stronger but also made me distrustful of people. With my mom as example of a strong female, I never felt the need for a "father-figure". But I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if my father hadn't abandoned us. Sometimes I wish I had a dad. When I see other girls with their dads, it makes me sad. My father is a stranger. He is not a part of my life and never will be. I don't want him anymore. He wasn't there when I needed him, he didn't see me grow up. I often find myself thinking about things other girls may take for granted, such as who will walk me down the aisle the day I get married? His example makes me fear commitment. I don't want to get hurt. I don't want to be left behind. As a result, I push people away. They don't know it, but I try to not be close to anyone. I purposely sabotage my chances at happiness before someone else does it for me. I alienate myself, because,in doing so, I'm saving someone else the trouble of doing it for me. If my own father didn't want me, why would anyone else?

Daddy's little girl. That is exactly what I was before my family disintegrated. I was his favorite daughter and he was my favorite parent. I was his fearless little tomboy ready to take on the world. When I wasn't in school, I was with him. Together we would go to my grandfather's farms and play and bond.At night, he would tell me my favorite type of bedtime stories, scary ones. As a child, my dad had been my world. So when he walked out on us, I took it personally. When he hit and abused my mom, I felt all the blows. He left me. The person whom I had loved above all for the first eight years of my life, was the one who caused me the most pain. His betrayal made my heart close.

The Memory of Forgetting

I try to pretend I don't care. That I didn't love you.
Its true, maybe I didn't. Sometimes I don't know if did.

I think about what we had and it was nothing.
I try to remember times you made feel warm inside,
wanted, desired, cared for, protected.
There were certain occasions when I felt that you cared,
times when you made me feel special, like I mattered to you.
I looked forward to those times.
I looked forward to your smiles, your dimples.
I miss your dimples...

Whether or not I loved you, or still love you, you broke my heart.
Right now I feel empty and alone.
I wait for you to realize what you missed out.
Why didn't you want me? Why was I not enough?

I always thought that maybe my reward for
being a good girl would be some one like you.
That the first person I tried opening up to
would love me and fight fiercely for my love,
fight fiercely to let my passion come out,
fight fiercely to free me of this fear of rejection that keeps me captive.

But you didn't. You never did anything. You're stoic.
I don't know if its you, who you are,
who you've been, and who you'll always be.
Or maybe its just me. Maybe I didn't inspire love in you.
I wanted to make you happy, I just didn't know how.
Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference.

What hurts is that you never cared.
I'm crying for you but do you even think of me?
I long for you to call me, to tell me you want me,
that you made a mistake and I feel like such a dumb girl.

I know you won't. It wasn't love. Couldn't have been.
How could I have loved, still love,
someone to whom I was so insignificant to?
But like Neruda, tonight I can also write the saddest lines.
"I no longer love you, that's certain, but maybe I love you.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

The echo of your memory haunts me.
I try to erase you. I try to pretend you were just a dream.
I try to forget your arms around me, your scent,
the way the soft downy hair on your arms would rub against mine,
gently tickling my naked skin.

But I can't. I don't know how.
I function on autopilot. I try to keep busy.
To keep living. To re-piece my heart back together.
I try to find love in someone else. No one else is you.

I want to hurt you. To make you feel the way I feel.
Rejected. Dejected. Empty. Shattered. Invisible. Insignificant.
But I don't know how to. I know I can't. Nothing I can do can hurt you.
Because you never cared.

Instead I write to you things you will never read and hope that I heal.
That I forget. That I forgive. That I find happiness. I deserve it.
I want it with you, but know its impossible. Maybe you can't love.
You're a stone. A carcass, empty of emotion, incapable of loving.
Yet knowing this, I still want you...

Recognizing Love

Love is a concept. As such, it is nothing more than an abstract idea we've attached a symbol (heart) and holiday (Valentine's Day) to. We associate love with the color red, celebrate it with candy (preferably chocolate) and flowers (roses being the most obvious choice), but still manage to neither be able to define, understand it or completely surrender to it. Love affects our perception and behavior and often times serves as an acceptable excuse for acting out - "I did it for love", "love made me do it", "I did it because I love you". Love is viewed as a powerful feeling, perhaps people are right and love does conquer all. However, what perplexes me about love is that, at the end of the day, there is NO proof of its existence. You can't see it, touch it, taste it, smell it, nor hear it.

As a skeptic, its hard to accept the reality of something that one can't prove, whether it be a Higher Power such as God or a concept such as love. Some may argue that love manifests itself in everyday life - the father who works 3 jobs, the grandmother who bakes chocolate chip cookies, or the lover who tenderly kisses his partner's forehead. They're all signs, demonstrations of love. But are they really? Or do we just want to see them as such?

Love is source of comfort. Like God, it provides a sense of tranquility, serves as a safety net. It reassures one that we are not alone, that through hard times we have someone to lean on; someone to hold us; someone to tells us it will be okay. Love is multi-faceted. We say we love our parents, our children, our friends, our neighbors. But every love is different. The love we feel for our parents is different than that which we feel for our babies, our lovers, our friends. The difference in types of love is not really an issue for me, the issue for me is still the existence of love. Our approach to the different kinds of relationship is fine but do we love them or do we just form an attachment for different reasons?

We're creatures of habit so we grow accustomed to our parents and siblings, to their presence, to their acceptance of ourselves, the way they're there when you want them and when you don't. Because they're normally there as we develop, a sense of dependency that can be associated with love happens. We think we love our friends because, similarly to our family, we become dependent on them in what they give us - an ear when we complain about our jobs, schools, friends, families, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives; a distraction from our seemingly dull lives. However, the one that confuses me the most and probably the reason WHY I have to question love, is the romantic love shared by two people. If love is real, how can you stop loving them? How can you behave selfishly toward them? Use them? Lie? Cheat? I always thought love was about openness, about giving and not holding back. After all, love is "patient, love is kind". However, I look around and see that love is lacking. I understand that interpretation of love varies from person to person, but shouldn't all interpretations share that love wants what's best for the other person?

Poetry is Dead

What would the world be without colors? Would we notice their absence? Would we miss them? The world would be grim and dull, but not knowing the magic of hues, we would all be oblivious to their nonexistence. There would be no rainbow as the sun peeks through after a storm. No more happy flags waving down The Castro. What would the endless chains of fast food restaurants do without the reds, the oranges, and the yellows that trigger our appetites and unconsciously help us consume more than we need? Maybe there wouldn't be any more MacDonald's; no more happy clown urging you to play in his playgrounds while enjoying artery-clogging may-be chicken nuggets and I-hope-its-beef burgers. Oh, and can't forget the side of yummy deep-fried-I'm-one-step-closer-to-a-heart-attack fries. Ah, the good life. Maybe a colorless life would benefit our expanding waistlines; keep our children from joining the rapidly multiplying obesity club. However, though some good may evolve from the tragedy of the “Grey World”, we lose more than we gain.

First of all, as greedy as the human race tends to be, the invitation to over-indulge offered by the hunger-inducing tints may not make a difference. Colors, after all, cannot be held responsible for every committed act of excess, whether it be overeating or avarice. We’re probably better off blaming a woman. That’s what religion, mythology and history have done – Eve, Pandora, Malinche. I mean, it works, right? The point is that even without these volcanic shades, we would still find a reason to fill our greedy guts and keep them growing.

But a world without colors would be sad. There would be no poetry, for how would poets be inspired? There would be no green rolling hills. No snow-white covered mountain tops. No turquoise Mediterranean Sea. No more red, pink, orange, gold, purple, blue skies as the sun sets. No parrots flashing through the jungle. No multi-colored school of fish swimming in the bottomless ocean. No proud peacocks. No poppy fields. No high-lighted hair. But at least we would all be equal for there would be no racism. We would all be the same lifeless shade of grey. Toni Morrison wouldn’t have written "The Bluest Eye" Slavery, at least not as a result of one’s flesh tone, never would’ve been. History wouldn’t include The Holocaust. We wouldn’t know who Anne Frank is and would have never read her diary. Again though, the weight of those horrors cannot be blamed on colors as they can, and must be, blamed on human ignorance and lack of compassion.

Colors inspire and make us feel alive. A world without them wouldn’t be a world. If, indeed, the absence of colors had the power to keep events such as the Holocaust from occurring or slavery from ever being a reality, we wouldn’t be who we are today. We wouldn’t have the taint of those events to learn and evolve from. Everything comes with a price. When Eve chose to eat the flesh of the fruit the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, she opened our eyes to a world of realities and possibilities. She gave us the opportunity to chose for ourselves and be given free will. Therefore, a world with colors allows us to taste the magic of life and exercise our free will as we chose to accept or reject the tempting taste of fast food or give into or push away the ignorance of discrimination.