It is times like these. Moments when I feel as if nothing is more right than to stop. To strip naked before the world, remove all. Noises and distractions, people and ideas, to slip into an ocean of stillness and drift quietly, accompanied by no one, by nothing, not even thought. To immerse in the white noise that lies beyond the physical. Numb emotions, feeling. Be one with all, to be all. To be everything. To be nothing.


The Universe

Oh! I didn’t get yo write in my journal last night. But I saw her twice. She was gorgeous. Flowing, ethereal. Outside in the country. It was night and we were pedaling, snow gently cascading around us.  A Lone car swept lazily by,  and that’s when I saw her; little waves of snow, chasing the car, drifting left and right. The car drove on, the light faded, and so did she, ushering us onward to our house for the night. The next time we were in the city, yellow street lamps cast a warm glow on icy streets. Victorian housed lined the blocks and there was a church on the corner. This time she was dancing, in her excitement to see us arrive, running alongside us while skipping. Leaves tik tik ticking across the ground in front of us. Dashing left and right. As loving as laughter. Never passing us never slowing down, an escort for her lover, a sweetheart reunited with her soulmate.


When I came to college, I did so with 130 dollars in my bank account. All my books were purchased and so that money was mine to spend as I saw fit, or so I thought. The first surprise was the Bedford Handbook. For some reason, the order was canceled and so, begrudgingly, I dug into my account, shelling out seventy-five bucks for a book I will not be using after college. Next came the clicker that is required for my engineering class, costing an additional thirty dollars, and a few bluebooks and pens as well. 20 bucks left and I thought that my financial beating had come to an end. That’s when SJSU decided that I have to pay for business courses. I have a quarter left.


The Observation of a Sylph

She smiles playfully from behind her flowing brown hair as it lies draped around her delicate shoulders. Her hazel brown eyes glitter as they catch the rising sun, accenting her slender eyebrows. She dances in the street, exalting in the feeling of freedom, embodying the essence of innocence. Her gentle laugh dances across the sweet spring air, gently escorted by her own sweet fragrance. The glow of her skin in the morning light compliments the highlighting aura that surrounds her figure. Her energy is infecting, her smile, disarming, her laughter, sweet.

In the Palm of my Hand

Battered and old he looks on, on into the distance. Steadfast in his forward facing vision, he resists the elements. His face is worn smooth with time; so too is his coat. A scar can be traced down his right cheek, left over from a careless handler, or perhaps a rowdy child. His only companions on his long road are the Liberty at his back and his birth year, which he holds close to his heart. “In God We trust”. It is under this motto he lives. His hard bony features are distinguishable against the tarnished frame in which he lives. The 16th to hold the title of President, he now travels immortalized within his frame of copper.



Who am I? Marcus.

Marcus is but a name. Objects, ideas, feelings and emotions have names. Again, who am I? American.

American is but my citizenship, of being a part of a system of government, entitled to the rights granted by the United States of America, obligated, by birth in my case, to uphold certain duties. That is not who I am.

Who am I. Who am I. 

This rings in my mind. A sense of self is important to press on down a path we might consider ourselves set upon for, without that, we are no more than automations, subroutines carrying out procedures in an unfeeling manner. In order that we chose our path, that it reflects ourselves, we must first know who we are dealing with. That begs the question, why are we us. Not in a sense of origin; much of that is dependent on religious views, and other factors, but more pointedly, have we let experiences shape us into someone we don’t want to be? Mallory, Thomas, Anton.. these are all some of the most genuine people I know, in the way that they see life. As pure as it gets, untainted by material pursuits, social pressuring. Life isn’t complicated, it isn’t a mystery to be solved, it isn’t rife with these artificial stresses we lay on ourselves in following the herd, scrambling over one another in order that we might reach a plane of security that we see in the rat race. That is neither here nor there. 

I heard it told that if you need help, ask the poor. There is something telling about that. Something magical. 

I am a tracker of dreams, a follower of light, a guardian of ideals. I am a stakeholder in Mother Earth, a simpleton, a genius. I am logical, I am emotional, I am perfect, I am flawed. I am. And so I will be.