Writing Exercise

Rows of color.  Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, rimmed with thick lines of white and interspersed with weaving lines of woven white, hard-tipped.  It all sits on a box, black box, a black box colored red on the sides, and this whole thing is a showcase for color and the shoes that every kid wishes he had, and that every man wished he had when he was a kid.  So much color, so much beauty, woven out of fabric and rubber and plastic and dyes, folded and sewn and boxed up into these small coverings for our feet.  This is a symbolic picture of the longing for the new coolest thing that every boy has, when Timmy wants the amazing shoes that Joe’s parents just got him for his birthday, and so Timmy asks – no, begs – his parents for an advance on his allowance so that he can have shoes, those shoes, please can I have those shoes.

She stands on the edge of the lake, dressed in short shorts and a thin button-up shirt.  It is gray, cold, cloudy, and windy, and miniature waves are whipping up all across the surface of the water.  In her fingers hangs a dream catcher; it’s all rings and nets and feathers, reminiscent of Indians and shamans and smoke and tipis, eagles and mountain lions and bears.  A dream catcher, to ward off the nightmares and keep the peace until morning, like a night-guard in a museum of memories and potential keeping the robbers away, ready to call the police of awakening at a moment’s notice and bring the mind back into the real world and away from the haunting of these dark dreams.  Still she stands, as though in memory of times gone by, of dreams lost.  Perhaps with this dream catcher she can reclaim them, bring back some remnant of the life she let slip away, escaped through the land that exists somewhere between living and surviving.

The sky burns.  Waves roll over the sand, alight with pink and deep blue and green.  Clouds are suspended between dream and reality, colored with the fire of the sun.  The foam churns up as the winds rise, and the waves reach their wet, grasping fingers further up the beach.  The clouds scurry away beneath the onslaught, preferring to retreat, so that they might live to fight another day on some other land.  Above the isle on the horizon, the sun sets – or is it rising?  For in those moments between dark and light, and between light and dark, who can tell which one is which, or where time is held in these timeless events that somehow manage to happen every morning and evening without fail.  It could be a welcome into a bright new day, or it could be recalling past days, bidding the light farewell for an era of darkness and sleep until the next rising.

“FEAR IS A LIAR.”  It is branded in big, bold letters on the wall, pronouncing the truth like some prophet in ancient Jerusalem, calling to the bustling people of the city who stop up their ears and refuse to listen.  “If fear is a liar, then why does it ring true?” some of them jeer, only having enough time to mock the speaker before going on their way once more.  A very few (perhaps one or two) are truly curious, and await the prophet’s answer.  Slowly, carefully, he opens his mouth once more.  “Fear lies about our true worth and our true nature.  Though many times fear seems the appropriate response, there is so much more to be gained through courage, and courage shows us our true nature, the nature that has been given to us by Him.  Do not allow fear to tell you that you are a worthless being, a creature of nothing more than fearful survival, victim of the whims of chance; you are ever so much more than that.  You are an image of beauty, of joy, of skill, and most importantly, you are alive.  Nothing is more true about you than these things.  Fear is a liar.  FEAR IS A LIAR.”  And once again, the wall is merely a wall, and yet more than a wall: it is a proclamation of truth.