There are some questions asked and there are certain questions answered, and they are done in such a way as to excite the mind. Not because the information sought and the information reported is anything new or unique, but it is, just the same, discovered.

A mother asks a son what he refuses to ask himself. A lover phrases a question oh-so-precisely as to ignite thoughts previously unacknowledged. A simple prayer in the early morning hours becomes a moment of self-reflection and enlightenment. There are spaces — cracks, caverns — within each of us that burn and ache, waiting for the questions, the self-examinations, the answers. Nothing so profound as the meaning of life or the expanse of the universe. No, they are simpler things. So simple, in fact, that they are overlooked. There, in the corner of our everyday lives, in our blind spots, in the shadows. There, but so very absent.

We hear a joke, laugh and say, "It's funny because it's true." We aren't learning anything novel, but rather seeing it in a different light. And so it is with every aspect of our existence: The more we question, accept questions, shift position and change perspective, the more light we cast on ourselves. An inward casting.

But then there are the bits of us we imprison in the shadows. We chain them to the corner of our lives because it is so much easier, so much more comfortable, to ignore those pieces.

But when those blessed moments come — and they do, they always do — a gap is filled up, stitched back, and we welcome in a new version of ourselves, like the best friend we haven't seen in years, yet when they arrive, it seems they've been there always. And those pieces have always been there, they've just been waiting. Waiting to be seen. To be discovered. To complete us just that much more, if only we allow it.


I had a dream the other night that I was getting married. I had the dress, the boquet, the church, everything. I was walking into the chapel with my mom, a flurry of activity around me as things were readied for the event. I had a picture of the groom in my head: An ordinary bloke. Handsome enough. But amid all the activity, my stomach turned and I became sick with worry. I didn't know if he made me laugh. I wracked my mind for memories of laughter. But the only thing that came were the moments when I made HIM laugh. This wouldn't do. This was too cruel. How could I marry a man unable to make me even chuckle?

My concentration broke as I accidentally kicked over a bottle of water and watched it roll under a pew. I stared at it, like it was an alien. Tugging me on the arm, my mom broke my gaze and lead me to a dressing room to wait. I sat there alone, desperately trying to convince myself that this was OK. I could go through with it, couldn't I? Despite the lack of wit on his end? I could do it. I certainly couldn't back out now, not with all the guests arriving. If I could just sneak out the back door. Take a bus. Get away. Escape it all.

The alarm went off at this point, pulling me back into reality. I awoke, single, the sole occupant of a king-sized bed in my parents' home.

Now THERE'S something to laugh about.


I could sit here for hours — mechanically scrolling and clicking, scanning and double-clicking — if it weren't for the panic that comes. A panic that I must — I have to — go to bed, because I have things to do tomorrow.

But I don't.

Then I panic because I have people depending on me.

But I don't.

Then I panic some more as a list of things and people and events and responsibilities filter through my numbed mind. Yet each ones ends in,

"But I don't."

I don't have anything. Anyone. What could be a liberating experience of no expectations mutates into a crushing realization of worthlessness. Of my own worthlessness.

Yet I know that isn't true. Strange how I wish it were true for the mere melodramatic, pathetic, sad-story-for-the-sake-of-evoking-emotion-in-my-writing reason. There is so little interest in the everything-is-alright stories. Everyone knows that. And if you don't, well, now you do. What's exciting about normality? About average? About "just right"?

So, as much as I would like this story to be a heart-wrenching, soul-searching glimpse into a life that you thank the heavens you aren't living, chances are you are living it. Something like it. And chances are, you are equally disatisified with your disgustingly satisfying life, but seek somehow to make it unique amongst the emense evidences of ordinary.


Oh, I suppose we are all special. We're all unique in some way or another. And this time of limbo for me is legitamately out-of-the-ordinary, with no job, no friends, no car, no money. But it is, by no means, a call for over-dramatization.

Although, it would appear by my preceding paragraphs, it is a call for hyphenation.