I awoke at 4:45 AM sharp to the triumphant refrain of “Hail to the Chief.” Thursday, May 16, 2024. “Carpe diem,” I thought as I slipped out of bed. I made my way to the bathroom, thoughts rushing through my head about how the crowd–the whole high school–would react. This wasn't my first Student Council speech, nor would it be my last. Following a decisive victory in the previous election, I became my grade's Student Council President. A year later, it was time for yet another contest for continuity. However, this one was different, as my victory earlier in the year was so dumbfounding that I did not have an opponent. It was still eminent to consider that a lack of opposition did not diminish the challenges ahead. I washed up, cleaned my teeth, and fawned over my appearance, making sure not a hair was out of place. I crept down the hallway, taking care to not wake my family. I noticed the TV was on. Whether inadvertently left on by another inhabitant of the household or indicative of someone else being awake I cannot say, but the polarizing headline displayed was irrefutable:“President Joe Biden and Former President Donald Trump Agree to Two Debates in June and September.” Sipping on my tea, I contemplated future debates of my own. By then, I had committed to pursuing the presidency of the United States of America. This may seem like a naïve notion, but I had actually put extensive forethought into it. During childhood, many of my forebears reminisced about returning to “the good old days,” a sentiment deepened by the pandemic and subsequent years. I questioned why it was impossible to return to those fondly remembered times. Through later education and searching, I realized it was not. This discovery influenced my choices, including my actions on that day. After finishing my tea, I quickly returned to my room to dress. I donned a crisp navy suit paired with a bold magenta tie–an idiosyncratic choice to command attention. Before long, the household was awake, and we departed for school. In the car, I meticulously reviewed my speech. Upon arrival, I bid my family farewell and entered the school–the room where it happens. Walking through the halls, I received positive remarks about my attire. From a simple “I like your tie” to overt admiration, the positive remarks were apparent. The 8AM bell marked the start of Geometry class, which seemed to drag on amidst a mental cacophony of anticipation and nerves, making it difficult to concentrate on final exam preparations. Upon being freed from my mathematical prison, I made my way to the auditorium for the morning assembly, speech snug in my pocket, and butterflies resolutely in my stomach. As others gave their addresses, I pulled out my own combing every sentence, word, and syllable until finally, it was time.“For sophomore president, Mr. Mason Bibby.” “Showtime.” As I climbed the stage, the audience awaited in silence.“Alright, Mason,” I thought,"Either they REALLY wanna hear what you have to say, or you have something stuck on your face." I hoped it profusely it was not the latter. Notwithstanding this, I orated with conviction, and spoke from the heart, something that I noticed was not present in modern politics. It is simple to sway voters with mendacity or false bravado, but engendering hope is the mark of a true leader."I stand here as a testament," I declared firmly, my words resonating throughout the auditorium.“To the integrity and character that this community—this family—displays.”I observed a shift in the sea of faces. I spoke a spirit of unity into these students; no easy task on account of their general indifference. I urged the crowd to remember those who leave a lasting impact, including myself. “Remember the one who listens. Remember the one who leads. Remember Mason Bibby for Sophomore Student Council President.”Departing amidst thunderous applause, I felt a swell of pride. Adjusting my jacket one last time, I stepped aside for the next speaker. Throughout the day, I received myriad commendations for my speech, from students and faculty alike. Finally, around 3 PM, I returned home. I took a moment to unwind, removing my jacket and draping it over the desk chair. I stepped outside, listening to the melodic chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves as a gentle breeze swayed my tie. Admiring the expansive landscape surrounding my home, I reflected on my achievements. Essay contests. Meetings with influential figures. And my student council career. I considered future milestones: college, military service, law school, and a potential career in politics. Thoughts raced through my mind, prompting a smile—I smiled for what I was. What I am. And what I am yet to be. Back inside, I rolled up my sleeves and powered on my computer. Entering a new tab, I searched for “leadership opportunities for high schoolers,” eager to discover avenues through which I could inspire the most crucial value for anyone–hope. Because a president's job–my job–is never done.

“Someone in China got sick after eating a bat according to my history teacher,” the voice echoed around the room, as my head snapped up to join my friend's conversation. “Wow. What an idiot.” We laughed it off without a care in the world. Two months later, I couldn't see him again. This 21th century plague of the new decade had snuck up behind us like a hungry predator. Despite the warming weather, I was curled under the heavy blankets in my bedroom, the only source of lighting being my phone and sun-rays peeking through the window. My computer was set on my desk, calling me to finish the piling work assigned by teachers as they slowly realized we won't be going back to school any time soon. Instead of listening to the call, my eyes were still locked on my phone screen. Each day there is more news about the pandemic. One day they say it'll be over by mid-summer, the next, two years. I tear my eyes away from the phone to look elsewhere. Maybe if I'd ignore it, the pandemic would disappear. My body automatically shifted to the side, where I can stare at the walls crowding against me instead. It wasn't much better. The walls held the evidence of what happened in the past months. The empty walls of a recently moved-in home had now earned the right to be jeweled with posters and shelves, yet after gazing at them day after day, I want to tear them down and restart. Everyday since the quarantine notice went out, my room was where I was stuck. Yes, I could travel down the steps and hang out in the kitchen, but with five other people in the house, there is not much room for peace. The sound of footsteps outside my door pulled me out of bed, “Heading to the grocery store. Do you want to join?” Weariness was still clouding my mind when I looked at my father in front of me. Groceries meant it was Friday. I didn't notice. After a quick affirmation, I pulled on my new outfit, way nicer than anything I have worn in the past. In this day and age of pajamas and sweats, basic tasks meant you can dress up. I embellished myself with jewelry and reminded myself three times to grab my cloth mask before I headed out the door, regretting not grabbing one of the many snacks I had baked over the week. The car ride to the supermarket was short. Too short. If it were me driving, I'd take a wrong turn to prevent myself from the same daily routine. But I'm not driving, so I suck it up and enter the store like a kid entering a carnival. At first, it is fun. I reach for my favorite foods, as well as the obscure ingredients I need for my upcoming week of baking. Then, the crowds start to get tighter. Why do so many people need chips? One person moves around me, and another is blocking the shelves. I want to get out of the suffocation and the panic that I am not used to. Any of the people in this aisle can be sick. I could get sick. My sister can get sick. My mom, dad, and brothers as well. I want to go home. I need to go home. I always end up home. Pulling back into the driveway is like rolling back into bed. I'm safe, but I know that it is not for long. It is a sign of warmth. A sign of peace. A checkpoint in life, that reminds me that tomorrow I have to begin again. I'll wake up and be in the same pandemic. The new world that we live in. Each news article tells us a new story, but we have to hope we can prepare for it.

I am flying solo. I am walking the streets of Kadıköy all alone. My ferry ride: alone. My Sunday brunch: alone. I am taking the bus on a cold and snowy day: all alone. My music, my thoughts and baggy pants: that is all I have now. I walk past people with loved ones, I walk past happy children playing, I walk past old married couples, I walk past everything and they don't notice… And I am finally back at my bleak shelter that I call a dorm. My solitude. I am not alone. I am leaving Istanbul to go back home. I stop by every hand sanitizer station I can find. I stare at people to see if they are coughing. Anyone can have it. I might have it. We all might have it. As soon as they hear me arriving at home, my grandparents ask us to come to visit them. “I just came back from Istanbul, it's too risky,” I say. But they don't listen. My grandmother wants to cook me my favorite food, my granddad wants to buy me presents. Is that how people show each other their love? Because the idea of feeling responsible if they get “it” is not how I normally perceive love. It's silly. It's uncomfortable. It's just unnecessary. I show my love by not going there. It's because I care. Nevertheless, I start staying at my grandparents' house, eating at their dinner table, listening to their tea talk in the evening. I appear to not have “it”. They appear to not die. Time passes and managing friendships over the internet gets harder. I seem to not get on well with people that I call “my best friends.” They seem to not understand my jokes. They seem to blame me for my sense of humor. They seem to not care about my real intentions. They just see what they see and that seems to be enough for them. This is how I always do it, this is how I always show them I love them. I tell people that I don't care and when I laugh after finishing my sentence, it's always funny. It's hard to understand the fact that they just can't seem to tolerate me. It is more real than it has ever been now. I can't go out. My grandparents can't go out. People do Netflix parties, they facetime, they stay at each other's houses. I don't. I cook and bake and sleep and that's all. I have even lost my only weapon. I can't go and explore the city by myself anymore. I can't enjoy my solitude. I can't find the power to fly solo. At this exact time, people lose their beloved ones all around the world. Everything is so sudden. It's stupid how we take everything for granted. And if the people I love were to die the next day, unsure whether I love them or not, I would feel guilty. I would feel guilty for not being able to show my love and the fact that I care about them. I realize after all this time, this is not how it's done. This is not how you show people that you care for them. You don't do that by not showing up, by demeaning them, by ignoring them, by treating them like everybody else. You do that by spending quality time, by keeping your promises. You do that by making them feel special. I am now with my friends at Bebek. We are sitting in our favorite restaurant, eating our favorite food. People go past us, seagulls fly above us, a boat stops by the pier. My laughter is filling the air, I try to capture the moment and make it special. I have my friends now and they are all I care. I have my friends now and they know that I care.

Every single day, I write a gratitude journal. I have been writing one since I was ten years old. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was hopeful. But as people close to me tested positive and one of my best friend's dads succumbed to the deadly virus, the virus was not a cold statistic anymore. My little niece, usually cheerful, wrote a story about how she discovered a magic potion that could combat the virus. For the first time, I knew that I was going to be living through a period in the world that would constitute living history. Indeed, anything we write about this pandemic and our experiences of it, will be used as archival research for years to come. How have I being spending my days, you ask? I have been practising strict social distancing, as several people I am quarantining with are immuno-compromised. In my real life, I live and work as an entrepreneur and a tour guide, so tactile presence is important not just to me as a human being, but also in terms of my career. Of course, my walking tours have dried up, but I have spent my time listening to BTS, a Kpop band that I discovered when I was going through one of the worst phases of my life-getting out of a physical and emotionally abusive relationship. The trauma of that relationship continues to haunt me and sometimes I wake up at night in a pool of tears, frightened and startled too, at the person I became in a relationship with a person determined to impede my growth through their abject apathy and narcissism. It has been three years, and I have emerged out of this terrible equation stronger, wiser and post importantly, much happier. During the pandemic when I have some free time, I watch mukbangs and learn about ASMR, play video games with new friends I have made, the pandemic has really helped me expand my community and appreciate all the creative ways in which food bloggers, sustainable fashion designers are using their platforms. I am also very impressed by the way activists are using the tools available to them to agitate and organize. Writers are writing beautifully. I have been feeling very exhausted of late so I have been snapping at a lot of people who are very close to me. I have built an unflappable social media persona online, but I am still the same quiet, unsure and grouchy person I always was. It is so easy to lose sight of who you fundamentally are when accolades come your way. And contrary to popular belief, success does not always make you confident. It can also make you nervous and insecure. With almost no interactions offline, I find myself comparing my own life to acquaintance's lives. He got an award during quarantine. Her business is thriving. She got a book deal. Once you start looking at other people's curated feeds (and automatically compare your unfiltered life to their curated one), it makes you miserable. Rationally, you know that this is only one part of the story and there is so much more to it, but your insecurity and low self esteem gets the better of you. "I still have not finished the book I promised I'd write," I tell myself. But I have low energy and am mentally too exhausted to actually form characters. "I will be disciplined and create a schedule that works for me." But I fail and I fail every single time. Finally, I decide that it is time for a shift in mindset. I am lucky to be alive and healthy and it is really okay if I don't get much done during the pandemic. I am working on my full-time job, and being productive is not really the prerogative at the moment. Finding a vaccine for COVID-19 is. Surviving is. Staying kind and loving is.

Planted on the pedestrian bridge spanning the kayad road I look over the handrail at the traffic below, the road is barely visible under what seems like a flock of motorized starlings migrating to escape the harsh winter. Everyone gripping the steering wheel seems to put their frustration on display through their driving. The white lines on the road are almost faded; maybe they're just tired of pleading the people to stay in their lane. I avert my gaze from all the hustle and bustle and make my way towards the sidewalk where I lower my head and immediately start scanning the pavement looking for the signs of deterioration I'm familiar with. Counting the third tile from the left of the parking payment machine, I notice the oddly shaped crack my friend and i have always argued about. I am quite sure it looks like an eye with its inner corner turned abnormally inwards but my friend believes it resembles a sparrow. I smile at the idea for she has always been a nature freak but the corners of my mouth twitch unconsciously as I do so. I heave a sigh and continue walking. I realize I am running late but this revelation doesn't stop me from lingering. As I turn a corner an easterly wind brings along the savory aroma of all the street food present. I feel a vague sense of familiarity, some fragments of a happy memory flicker before my eyes but they disappear before I can get a hold of them. I haven't even taken a few steps ahead when I spot a child ,not older than 5, who is playing with a ball and is eating a samosa simultaneously. He's certainly not good at multitasking for he accidentally throws the samosa in the air instead of the ball. The samosa falls to the ground and the child looks at me as if asking if he should pick it up and eat it but my eyes remain fixated at the samosa that has fallen. It's as if a closed door in my brain has opened, I drift off to a memory of me and my friend; it is 2015. The monsoon season .The only shelter my friend and I have from the downpour is a thin jacket that is draped over our heads. The rain seems to have dampened everything but our moods. Mr. Khalid, our van driver has just called telling us he'll be late, for his van broke down but this hasn't seemed to bother either of us, on the contrary we are delighted! As if on cue we spot a samosa stall and exchange knowing looks. Without a warning both of us sprint, splashing the water that has- like always- failed to drain, buy samosas, and then come back to our spot laughing ourselves hoarse, drenched in rain from head to toe. Someone's angry muttering brings me back to the present; I had been blocking the way. I look around for the child but he's nowhere to be seen, I'm glad the samosa is still there. I clutch the string of my bag even more tightly and continue walking. The grey concrete building has now come into my view. Instinctively, I reach out for the page in my bag and scan the words I had written with so much care. This will never be enough, I think to myself. I hold onto the parchment as if my life depends on it and resume walking. Someone hands me a brochure and just when I'm about to throw it away (like always) a familiar face catches my attention. I can't seem to remember who the person is but the flashy heading that reads "Rina's bakistry” instantly tells me about the person. I take a mental note to pay her a visit after a few days or maybe weeks, I don't know. My friend had always been Miss Rina's favorite, she was so fond of children and the fact that she didn't have her own glued the two of them together. She used to bake muffins for her every weekend and they used to joke about how Miss Rina would one day start a franchise. I really want to tell my friend that this is finally happening. I can't wait. My watch says its 3:15, I should hurry. My walk turns into a jog and in a matter of seconds I'm running like a crazy person. I run for all I am worth and alongside me -so it seems- runs the 5 year old I had once been, coming home from school. The echo of the smaller footsteps sounds haunting because the sprint of a 5 year old is triggered by happiness and glee whereas.... I stop in front of the grey building; the stitches on my sides prevent me from standing straight. I wait with my hands on my knees till my breathing eases. I crumple the paper that I had been reading and editing since yesterday and throw it into the sewer. I watch as the words dissolve into nothingness and the ink fades. Deciding I'll speak from my heart for the eulogy; I brace myself to say a final goodbye to my beloved friend.

La Place Kleber You can smell intensively the croissant and the French coffee ready to be served. French coffee always make her happy. Its always such a delight for her to sit and enjoy a cup of French filter coffee. That small French coffee shop is a place to sit and think about all the things you can really enjoy and do in a day. The square is full of busy people walking down the road. Some of them are in hurry to get the bus, some of them are going to a professional meeting. And some, who are lucky are just wandering around in town to enjoy the day by doing absolutely nothing. She grabs a book and starts reading. The title is challenging, but she wanders if it is too positive or negative. Maybe it's an irony... "Every time i find life's meaning, they change it"... What a weird title. She doesn't know if she has to feel happy with this meaning or not. A passerby sits next to her. He orders coffee too. He smiles at her. She smiles back. They laugh together. She drops the book on the table. C'est la vie.

WRITING versus TYPING Hmmm.. which do you prefer? Personally I love them BOTH... but as an old-fashion guy, I prefer scratching ink and lead to different types of paper just like a traditional visual artist who does his self portraits,friends and ladies. WRITING = 70% TYPING = 30% WRITING versus TYPING Hmmm... Who's has a lot of styles? Definitely the Digital one while.. WRITING helps me to do manual calligraphy whereas TYPING instantly offers me a lot of Font options on my own convenience with less effort. The score: WRITING = 50% TYPING = 50% WRITING versus TYPING Hmmm... Who is the better keeper? Surely the First one. I am [Talking/Writing/Typing] based on experience.. After 'ol the effort on 'ol my written stuff!? I have accumulated bundles of notebooks, sketchpad, and canvases. ''Olmost 'ol those are kept on our Attic, on my bookshelves, on our other house and others are underneath my bed. Whereas my "TYPED-stuff" where digitally distributed on my laptops, flash drives and on the google drive. The score: WRITING = 60% TYPING = 50% WRITING versus TYPING Hmmm... Who is the bulky one? Surely the First one. The score: WRITING = 85% TYPING = 15% WRITING versus TYPING Hmmm... Who is more sentimental? Writing. The score: WRITING = 70% TYPING = 30% WRITING versus TYPING Who do I value more? Hmmm... Personally, If I were to choose between two (2) identical manuscripts- One (1) is hand-written on a notebook & the other one (1) is on a flash drive, Sorry but, I rather keep the notebook. And then afterwards... ....have the notebook digitized. The score: WRITING = 85% TYPING = 15% WRITING versus TYPING To whom i remember more? In WRITING, I can only use my Left-hand, Solely. Intimately ...whereas in TYPING, ..I can use both of my carpals. Tick-Tack! Dancing, Playing, ..like on a keyboard, or on guitar strings! WRITING versus TYPING Who do I love more? Hmmm... Both... Fifty (50) -Fifty (50) I love both my Year 2000 notebooks and my Year 2000 floppy disks. Except that I cannot open and read my floppy disks. :( ...Trapped. The real score: WRITING = 60% TYPING = 40% WRITING versus TYPING? Who will last better? Who really know? Dust mites, Termites, Digital viruses, forgotten passwords, .. A. I initiatives... ..the solution.... ..back-up, back-up.. ..digitized, ..digitized. ...And keep the most cherish Writings in the Attic.

There are few places in this world that one can truly call magical. Places that seem to transcend space and time, existing entirely within themselves. I can with unshakable confidence categorize Nantucket Island as one of these places. No matter how many times I visit, it always feels like the first, with the island never failing to invoke the sense of being transported to another world. It's unique ambiance making all the stresses of my every day somehow seem nonexistent. As if the only thing in existence is the island and the ocean holding it in its embrace. The experience begins with the boat ride to the island, salty breeze forming impossible tangles in my hair and whipping against my skin with a damp stickiness. The first step off the boat onto a cobblestone street, filled with people from any place in the world you can dream of, is an unparalleled experience. Overwhelmed as the din of thousands of people buzz in and out of the surplus of shops lining narrow streets, each person moving as though they expect the world to part for them. The bustling streets of the town slowly give way to long scenic roads that span across the island. No longer surrounded by the compact buzzing atmosphere, spacious flat fields spread out on either side of the car. Lavish houses worth millions pepper the landscape, only to be abandoned the second the first leave turns orange. Sitting grey and vacant until the heat of summer returns next year. We drive further though, beyond these luxurious estates, turning onto a small road that leads to a quaint community of houses, home to the families that live year-round on the island. People who take the island in its entirety, truly able to call Nantucket their home. The house I stay in is tightly packed next to several others, sharing the same small backyard. Children gather to play in the snug space, whooping and running through the yard. Excited legs pumping and chubby hands grasping at each other in the throws of whatever game had caught their attention. The neighbor's dog yipping excitedly at their heels before losing interest and boisterously pushing through our screen door with urgent expectancy. Pawing around for the treats my sister often gave him. Away from the fancy poster of Nantucket that brought so many to vacation on the island, these small moments hold the most wonder for me. Down the street near our house lay the turtle docks. The rickety T shaped formation of old grey wood jutting out into the reed-filled water. Children crowd over the side of the dock in wide-eyed fascination as they lower raw chicken tied to pieces of long twine into the muddy water. A combination of sharp claws and teeth shred the meat in a flurry. Huge snapping turtles are pulled above water as they stubbornly cling to their catch, dangling on the string in full display. Delighted squeals bubble in the air as children gasp in exhilaration at the captivating animals. Leaning over the docks laughing and shouting as the fight for a half-eaten chicken bone intensifies. Attention rapidly shifting from one thing to another, desperately trying to follow the wild activity beneath the water's surface. Having my fill of excitement, I continue on. At the end of the street, a familiar sandy path opens up through thick bushes. Climbing the long winding beach path, up and down the dips in the sandy trail, through low hanging dappled trees, and into a clearing filled with golden grass mimicking the ocean's soft ebbing waves as the wind trickles through it. Suddenly the thin trail opens up into a dauntingly steep dune. Scorching sand scolds sandal-clad feet as I struggle to ascend the ever-shifting hill of fine pale sand. Finally, at the apex, I'm met with blue, the most magnificent and all-encompassing blue I've ever seen. The unapologetic sky distinguishable from the sparkling waters only by the infinitely present horizon. Days spent lounging in the sunbaked sand, surrounded by people of similar dispositions, content to simply exist. Eyes closed, the sun's molten warmth soaking into muscles. A gentle breeze rolling across reclined bodies and tickling exposed skin as we sink into the heated sand with a sigh. Breaths become deeper and slower still, being lulled into a slumber like trance by the gentle rhythmic whoosh of waves beating a soft lullaby. I find myself being pulled back to the island each summer to walk the same sandy path and enjoy the excitement of the turtle docks, wanting to experience all the things that make up Nantucket again and again. From the bustling rudeness of people accustomed to having the world at their feet to the earnest families whose very souls are a part of the island. Every single aspect of Nantucket supports this all-encompassing magnetic atmosphere. No matter how many times I experience it, that first step onto that warm cobblestone street brings me back to the very first time, the moment I became hopelessly enraptured.

Yes I admit, in some ways you are too old for me. The way you talk to children and activate a flashlight somewhere behind their wide eyes gives me shivers. The way you light something up in me makes me feel the same way, but sometimes I don't mind. Every now and then I catch you mention "but that was ahead of your time," and at first it doesn't bother me, but then I feel like I need to scrape my knees to catch up to you. But there's a way you bring me back to when I had just turned 13 - a new innocent spark under my small denim jacket, the calmness I felt listening to my favorite bands that were your favorite bands. You grabbed my arm and twirled me back to my favorite time in my life, riding around the block on my bicycle with my headphones playing the same music you were listening to in high school. I smell rain and I see tall trees that my eyes never saw the tops of, and I feel the smooth keys on my first keyboard I ever played when I unwrapped the shiny model on Christmas. I feel misunderstood again - in a good way. I feel smart, but I also feel like I'm ready to learn. Just when I thought I was trapped in this globe of uncertainty and confusion, you pulled me out and held me with your calloused hands and whispered lyrics to a song I've never heard before. I don't mind if you make me chase you - I feel the way I did when I swung on the swing set in primary school hoping to touch the sky with the curve of my toes. You take the bitter taste of dirt out of my mouth and drop a teaspoon of cough syrup on my tongue and I taste youth again. I love that you don't expect too much from me. I have looming due dates of papers over my head and voices singing that I'm a disappointment. With you, all I have is time. I have a full life ahead of me, that's what you said. I have nothing but time to waste with you while the world stops turning for that night. The little girl you dragged out from under me is frightened and won't let me enjoy living again. She's grown up before, and now that she's back again, she knows what you're going to do - she's seen it all before. Love and learning isn't all playgrounds and love bites and tire streaks in the driveway. It's scar tissue, obsession and smeared hearts on the face of the one who eats their heart out. You must never tell, she tells me. Do not let him know. I feel fire flaring up behind my neck when you whisper in my ear. I hear ghosts from the corners of my brain start to sing when you talk about the things you love. I feel a heavy weight on my heart when you hand me a shot glass. I feel it tugging when you become irritated when I get dressed. "Are you fucking leaving? Because if you want to leave, you can just go, I'll unlock the door for you," you hissed at me. I had to undo my dress and throw it on the floor for you to believe that I wasn't going anywhere. I heard police sirens and saw flashing blue and red lights, but they went away at the blink of an eye when you started to play love songs. I can ignore the signs all I want, but if they start to take away my sight, I will have to feel everything so intensely and blindly. I feel the wind brushing my long hair again while I sit outside by the lake at my grandmother's old house. I remember what it felt like to have my heart broken when I was little and not have anywhere to go but here. I close my eyes when we lay together in your bed and you roll on your side, and I come back to this place. I love it because even as lonely as I have ever been, nobody else has ever taken me here. Something about you forces me to experience everything over again and I feel immortal. I haven't spoken to you in months, I think it might even be a year. I fell in love with someone else. Younger than you, but still significantly older than me. Whenever she says "but that was ahead of your time," it reminds me of you and I wish I was nestled between your chest and your beard but I fell in love with someone else and you never bothered to text me again after that night that I made you walk home. I don't feel bad because you humiliated me in front of all your friends. I know you remember what happened. I drove by your house last night and I saw boxes piled up outside of your front door. You must have moved back to New Jersey finally, just like you told me you were going to do someday, using it as a reason why I deserved better. I see it now. I wanted to tip toe over and hide in the biggest box I could find and tie a long silky red bow around it, but I thought I might get tipped over on the way to the post office. I think about you a lot more than you'd think, you know. I see fragments of you in everyone I meet. You sneak your way into my thoughts very rarely, but still leaving me feeling refreshed. Feeling raw. Feeling free. Feeling immortal.

I think I'm best defined as an idea. All of my sentences start off with, “I think,” trajectories, and I'll say something only to change track abruptly half way through my thought. I feel like an interrupted thought, myself, like half way through making me God or whoever got a call and left an unfinished mass, an afterthought, and thought, well fuck it, tossing this into whatever they could and crossing their fingers for luck. That's my modus operandi, anyway. The words half baked might describe me, I'm not much for alien theories and all that pizazz and the tin foil hat, but it's not because I don't believe it can't be true either, it's because I have the well, fuck it attitude towards that too and my M.O indicates that delving into all the millions of conspiracy theories- uh, too much work, so I leave it an open ended, yeah maybe, but don't care to look too much into it. I'm not a skeptic, just disinterested. For someone who doesn't believe in conspiracy theories not because I don't actually believe in them but because there's probably some truth somewhere and don't feel like going into the landmine of lost ideas, and I'm somewhere in between, not quite believing or disbelieving it but equally open ended to the probability, you'd be surprised that I actually do like research. That's how I feel with God too, I forgive you, big G, for that phone call, but I'm pretty meh on your existence or nonexistence either and anyway, kinda your fault if you did want to get pissed. Don't you know to leave your phone on silent when you're working on something important? It's funny, I'm sure you're looking down in disbelief. I'm looking at you with that too. Yeah, I'm half baked, a cake half batter and half real actual cake, never fully cooked up and just sitting in the middle. I like to come up with half baked things too. Even though I don't care for conspiracy theories. What if is another favorite along with my I think. I'm sure me and Descartes would have gotten along. I do love to learn which you probably got the impression that I'm someone who'd rather the information just be handed to them than to bother to delve into anything. I love delving into things, actually. I itch in a classroom and would rather read the information myself from my textbook than listen to a teacher drone on. I'm much more thorough. And a lot faster. I guess I do like the information handed to me. But handed to me, by myself. I think I argue for something only to end up on the other side of the argument. You know what they say, the grass is always greener on the other side. Along with my, “I thinks” (someone should really put a daily limit on them, actually) I tend to use some big words and convince everyone else all along until a what if thought pops up and interrupts me and makes me switch to the side I pulled others through or some nonexistent side that just popped up in my head. I also like to narrate, for myself. I guess when God's just as equally improbable as probable, you gotta put someone there instead. Sometimes I put my partner there, sometimes I put myself. For example, that pop, I imagined a balloon exploding, that sound, pop! With an exclamation mark, I imagined it in big letters, comic style, and imagined one of those light bulb idea things except a balloon in place of the light bulb. I do this a lot, a lot of words fill my head, I automatically detail things that I wouldn't say aloud. Adjectives flood my head on a daily basis and when I mean flood I mean Noah's ark and ushering all the words possible into my head just as he ushered all the animals onto that boat.Ark. Semantics. Insert my M.O here. Anyway, gee, Noah, mind saving us a unicorn or two? I think sometimes I could be a statue, too. I watch a lot of people talk and though my head feels like one of those factories with big wheels and little wheels and whirring and all of it connected and concocting something, but on the outside, stone still. Statue. Sometimes people talk at me and I guess I'm a convincing statue cause they either tell me all their secrets if they're superstitious and believe in statues or see me as a regular statue and only tell me all their secrets because they don't notice I'm there. Anyway, sometimes someone could probably wave a hand straight in my face for a minute straight and I might not even notice, and I get a lot of comments about regally staring into the distance like I'm lost and I don't really have much to say so I think I make a pretty good statue except I have lots to say but mostly to myself. Sometimes I don't even notice people talking, I'm so busy being a statue that I become a real one for a second. Disengaged, background.

There was a knock on the door. It was sometime around 9 pm on a Sunday and none of us were expecting any visitors; especially at that time of night. My Aunt Ra'Shonda had spent the day with us: 8-year-old Lil' Sam, 4-year-old Vincent, 17-year-old Ziare, 14-year-old Chyna, my mother, and myself. We were all waiting on my step-father Big Sam, to get home with the projector screen to watch movies that night. It was all that he been talking about since he had brought the projector. My mother was upstairs in Vinny and Sam's room when the knock came. I was in my mama's room, probably messing in her bathroom. The details are murky; but the knock that came was clear. My Aunt was downstairs in the family room with Chyna and Sam, while Ziare was in his room with the door shut, doing who knows what. Vincent was sleep. But when the knock came, the whole house went on alert. My mama came from the boys' room still holding clothes, with the given order that, to whoever it was, she wasn't there. She had seen the car from an upstairs window, and didn't like the looks of it. So I ran downstairs only to see that Aunt Ra'Shonda had already answered. There were two people, a man and a woman, both wearing badges of some sort, and guns in holsters at their waist. They were clearly some kind of detectives. “Are you Da'Shonda?” The man asked when he had seen me coming down the steps. “We're homicide detectives here about Samuel DuBose. We're looking for Da'Shonda Reid.” Homicide detectives? Why are they here about Sam? Is he…? I quickly ran back upstairs, putting two-and-two together, that something must have happened to Sam; that something terribly bad had happened. My mama was in the boys' walk-in closet when she asked who it was. I told her they were detectives, but I couldn't bring myself to say that they were there for Sam. In that moment I didn't have to, because my mama asked, “Is it Sam?” And through tear ridden eyes, I could only nod my response. My mama quickly ran past me down the stairs to the detectives, who were now in our living room. “Da'Shonda?” they asked for clarification before proceeding. “Is it Sam, what happened?” My mama was sobbing. The sound of her cries pulled the whole house towards her. “Yes. Sam was shot and killed in an altercation with a police officer--.” The house stopped. Did he just say, police officer? “We see that he was a lot thinner than in his ID, was he ill? Or was there something going on that would make him want to commit suicide by police?” Suicide by police? “Naw he ain't do no ‘suicide by police.' If an officer shot him, I could tell you right now, he didn't do anything to deserve it.” My mama responded; angry at the implications of the question. Lil' Sam and Chyna had been listening from the top of the stairs, while I sat at the bottom of the stairs, closest to the living room. Ziare had come down from his room, and was now in the kitchen listening. “Daddy died?” Lil' Sam asked. Crying, I could only nod. I grabbed and hugged him while he cried tears in my arms. We all sighed that Vinny was asleep, but cried harder for when it was time for him to wake up—to no movie projector; to no daddy. The detectives sat and asked my mother a series of questions: when was the last time she spoke with Sam, the last time he was home, if he knew anyone nearby the area he was shot in, whose name the car was in… These sorts of questions went swirling through the air, mixing and mingling with the sounds of sobs, silences, and sniffles. Sam was gone. And though the detectives were right there telling us this, it wasn't real. We didn't believe it; couldn't believe it. Couldn't grasp the idea that the person we had been waiting on, wasn't going to show up; couldn't handle how we would tell the sleeping four-year-old that his daddy is dead, and that he never made it home with the projector screen. Couldn't understand how, so quickly, the murder of my stepfather, was being turned around on him. How he was never a victim, but an immediate suspect in his own murder. The knock on the door that changed our expectations for the night. The knock on the door that forever changed all of our lives. The knock on the door that punched us all with unbearable news. The knock on the on the door that you think, could never happen to you. The knock on the door with America's hidden truth: that when an officer kills a citizen, it is the victim who will lay accused.