Metaphors and Short Stories

The stack of plates was balanced carefully on the tray she held on her shoulder. It wasn't exact- the silverware had gotten stuck between a couple of them, making them sit unevenly. It's a tall stack, but the dinner guests kept handing them to her, and how could she say no? She was just the server, after all. And good service, keeping up the appearance, was necessary to keeping her job here. So she piled them high. It must've been ten plates at least, in varying sizes. Some were dinner plates and some dessert. She even had a soup bowl or two in the mix. And of course the silverware stuck everywhere- two or three pieces for every dish. It kept sliding, but she hadn't dropped any yet.

She just had to walk to the kitchen. That was all. Around her, the guests chattered, unaware of her plight. As she looked ahead, the path seemed so long, and her burden so large. Carefully she steadied the stack with her free hand. Taking a deep breath, she took her first slow step forward. Smooth, smooth, she thought, trying to glide. Her right foot slid forward on the carpeted floor, and then the left. Three steps. The kitchen seemed impossibly distant. But she couldn't stop now. Momentum pulled her onward. That, and a determination to prove that she could do it. And the knowledge of what would happen if she failed.

"You're kidding me! Did he really?" A large man in an ash gray suit laughs and steps back right in front of her. She barely managed to arrest her forward movement, the stack of dishes teetering dangerously. Visions of chaos flashed before her eyes. Broken dishes, dirty suit, red face, angry voice. A fork slipped from its perch on the edge of a bowl and fell to the ground. Her knees bent in preparation to pick it up, but the swaying of the plates convinced her what a bad idea that was. If she picked up that fork, she'd lose everything else. Or at least most of it. She stands frozen for two long seconds before daring to slide her foot forward again.

The man kept talking, heedless of what had nearly occurred. Finally she could breathe as she finished passing behind him. She kept sliding forward.

The crowd was a living obstacle course, shifting unpredictably and in the worst ways possible. Tables got in the way, and children. And every once in a while, another guest would step up and set yet another dish on her tray. Each time, she smiled through her panic. Each time, she thanked them. Each time, the stack grew closer to collapsing. Another fork clattered to the ground. And a knife. She kept moving. Someone else would have to pick them up, for she could not. She heard her coworkers mumbling behind her back.

"Careless"

"Leaving it for us"

"Lazy"

She kept moving.

It was almost over. The door was there. And then her shift was done and she could go home. Just a few more steps, around that table, don't trip on the tablecloth. She was nearly there-

A small woman tried to pass in front of her. The movement took her by surprise and she couldn't stop. So they collided.

The tray turned almost gracefully in the air, seeming to caress her shoulder as it slid off. The plates maintained their stack for a second before gravity and forces beyond their control pulled them apart. A woman's mouth opened in a scream, a girl's in shock. White china becoming a myriad of smaller pieces with a sound like ice on the surface of a lake. Food and silverware bounced about the room. Stains on a nice dress appeared, where before there had been none. Feet tangled together and the attached bodies gave in to gravity.

Frantic apologies ensued. And the yelling that she had feared.

"Careless"

"Not watching where she was going"

"Tried to do too much"

She had tried to carry it all, and lost everything. She had been so close. And yet her failure was even worse for knowing that.

Though the morning is beautiful and clear
I find I still prefer being in bed, asleep
Warm blankets hold more allure then the sun
Welcome to winter

Music Taste

A little bit of rock
Christian
Indie
Young the Giant
Imagine Dragons
Juxtaposed with Benny Goodman
Ella Fitzgerald
Jazz and blues and swing
Next to Skillet, Toby Mac, and a little Linkin Park
A Great Big World and Twenty One Pilots
Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift
One Direction
Fall Out Boys
Bruno Mars
This is the music that moves me



PAD Day 23

Stuck In My Throat (The Words We Need To Say)

I once heard that the three hardest things to say are "I love you," "I'm sorry," and "help me."

This struck me as quite profound. And true. What other words carry such weight? What other words reveal such vulnerability, so much of what is occurring within our hearts and minds? None at all, except perhaps poetry. And poetry is not so hard. In poetry, we hide behind metaphors. We veil our intentions with words and rhythm, cadences meant at once to reveal and conceal.

Not so with these phrases.

"I love you"

Vulnerability incarnate.

What other words, when said and truly meant, give away so much of what makes us up? What other words, when said, reveal something so raw and fragile? Our hearts are our most carefully protected part, even by anatomy. These words reveal them. They reveal a thousand layers of thoughts and daydreams, of glances sneaked across rooms, and staring when they look the other way. A thousand plans for a future that may or may not be, and a willingness to risk it all on a chance, on saying these words. When it would, could, should be far easier to hold it within yourself, though it threatens to burst. When it's easier to hide and pretend and refuse to speak of it, because of the risk it is to say. Because to be broken by one you've given these words to is the worst breaking of all. Because to break someone you loved is the only pain that can equal it, but sometimes it just doesn't work out. Sometimes things get in the way of the daydreams and the glances, and it builds a brick wall. And you shatter your glass heart trying to break it down.

This is why "I love you" is hard to say

"I'm sorry"

Admitting to fault

In a world where perfection is the ultimate ideal, where we airbrush our models, where being right is more important than being kind ofttimes, apologizing is hard to do. To admit we were wrong, to take back words said in anger, actions done in rage. How can we admit to being less than perfect? Less than human?

Even more painful: What will they think of us, apologizing? What do they think of us after what we did? And how will they react? What if they reject us? This is the greatest fear that apology brings: rejection. Being spurned, being treated the way we surely deserve to. We are afraid of receiving justice when we are on our knees pleading for mercy.

Saying these words reveals strength. It reveals that we know our faults and are trying to become better. It reveals us as human. But in this world, being human is not always good. Being imperfect is sometimes scorned.

This is why "I'm sorry" is so hard to say.

"Help me"

Help me.

Help.

I am lost and alone. I am in pain. I am weakened and crying. I am useless right now and need your hand to lift me to my feet. I need your gentle touch and kind words. Please don't leave. Please don't abandon me hopeless on this cold ground, in this desolate, cobwebbed corner where I have sequestered myself with all the shadows in my heart. Do not scorn me, abuse me, criticize me. Please help me.

To say this is to reveal our darkness.

The shadows we hide in corners, in back alleys and forgotten places within our minds. This is what we hide; this is what these words reveal. That we are weak. They show our weakness to someone else, revealing the soft parts of our soul, our Achilles' heels. They show a person where to cut if they wish to cut the deepest, and yet we must trust them not to, because we simply don't have the strength to keep moving on our own. These words reveal nights spent curled up in a ball, sitting on the bathroom floor. Nights of desperate tears and uncontrollable sobs. Days of putting on a mask of playfulness and joy because if they see your broken pieces, will they still love you?

This is why "Help me" is so hard to say.

Rejection

This is what we are afraid of. The deepest fear, the darkest hatred of the human soul is to be shunned, rejected, spurned, hurt. To be given harsh words instead of gentle, to be broken by the ones we love. Why then do we reject others? Why do we not give them the gentle hand we so desire? I am so, so guilty. And trying to improve. Can we all try to say these words, to not reject the outreached hands of those that make themselves vulnerable. Can we be vulnerable? Say the words. Hear them. Speak them to those you trust. Let them see your heart, see the cracks that make you human, and the love that makes you more, see the faults you are fixing. Perhaps it is so hard because there is a trend of hurt in what we see, what we read, what we are exposed to constantly. Every moment passing brings another chance to be hurt or witness another's pain. But it also brings another moment to reach out a kind hand and help them out of their dark places.

These words, when said and accepted, can bind us together stronger than ever before- or tear us apart further than we knew was possible. That is scary.

These things are the hardest to say because we have made them so. And because we are human.

A Memoir In Fiction

She had a habit of rubbing her left ring finger with its corresponding thumb. It happened whenever she became stressed or nervous, or at all flustered. Why, she was unable to say, though her friends postulated that it calmed her, that by it, she looked to the future, and understood that "this too shall pass."

"Because, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing."

"Not even the painful stuff?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Well...because it's a little bit of everything that makes me up. It's the bad days, the depression and insecurity, the mental breakdowns and being too tired to think straight. It's all of those things, all of the darkness, that made me strong. It's because of the painful stuff that I can appreciate the beauty of life, and I can be optimistic. Really, those experiences are part of my identity, and changing them would change me. That's why."

Humpty-Dumpty-Sherlock

Sherlock climbed on the hospital wall
Moriarty told him to fall
Mrs Hudson, John Watson
And all Lestrade's men
Couldn't put Sherlock together again*



*Didn't need to put Sherlock together again...