It’s hot—blistering hot—the kind of hot that forces pores to sob for mercy—begging, pleading, whimpering, dying…—but I am alive in this inferno. Scorching hot. It’s scorching hot. In this hell, I push a mower back and forth, up and down, diagonal to diagonal; each muscle in my arms burning, turning to jelly, then to ash—is this some labor penance for missing this morning’s mass? A representation of the struggle between man’s attempts to tame nature and her assertive dominane over him? Have I become a metaphorical reality, revealing that, in life, one must, each day, thrust his mower up infinite hills to decaptitate infinitely growing grass? Or am I a symbol of feminine struggle—performing a man’s task (one without end) for man’s money—when the grass would rather be growing, stretching, until it reaches its point of equilibrium and can grow no more…and I would rather be watching it, encouraging it…pressing pen to paper without such purpose as cutting the grass requires.

Darkness builds on top of me–

A sunless, blackened sky,

But I will keep on waking

Until your hand is clasped

In mine.

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Today soon will be dead,

But tomorrow will renew

The hopes that breathed inside

This morning’s sleepy head.

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This nightmare still wakes me each evening;

The characters say the same lines

While trapped in slow motion,

Every syllable is spoken

Painful words preceding “Goodbye.”

With an unexpected outburst, the sky poured two parts hydrogen and on oxygen. A metaphorical sigh. Relieve yourself, sky, great body of air! Release the rain that perturbs your spirit, exorcise the water demons from your saturated soul!

A giant mass of burning flame

(Passion’s fuel is fire)

Hanging in the lofty sky,

Erupting with desire.

Paint the Town

Many hidden messages are found in color. Purple, for example, symbolizes riches and wealth. In all of its soothing tones, blue is a shade which floats through the peace of the aqua sky and turquoise ocean. Green conjures thoughts of slime, bile, envy, and greed. With its golden hues, yellow implies optimism and creativity, while the citrus shades of orange stimulate the appetite. One color, however, evokes more personal symbolism than any other. Red, alone, unleashes unfettered emotion, floods man’s senses, and overwhelms his psyche with deep, subliminal significance. A flash of the color crimson is a telegram from the human heart.

So often, the color red elicits romantic associations. On Valentine’s Day, a doting boy showers his blushing sweetheart with ribbons, cards, flowers, and heart-shaped boxes wrapped in shining crimson. Sitting across from her lover in a dimly-lit restaurant, a woman wearing a deep red dress embodies the romance and desire that only red possesses. When the intended message is one of love, no subtle hue will suffice. Only the color red captures the vibrant passion which is the essence of romantic love.

In addition to all of its romantic associations, red also signals promiscuity. A flash of bold crimson epitomizes the provocative lure of a Red-light District, where prostitutes sell themselves under the suggestive glow of red lamps. In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, the Wife of Bath, a woman “with five churched husbands,” dons scarlet stockings. Apart from the gripping shades of red, no other color illustrates the fiery desire and internal yearning of lust.

After a glimpse of red, the heart is struck with emotions of war and aggression. The brilliant scarlet of a British soldier’s coat symbolizes the pride he feels in his country and the blind anger of war. The appalling vividness of red flashes a horrific war scene to the human heart; crimson alone captures the hostility of battle, the rage of plunging one’s bayonet into his enemy, and the sanguine shade which flows from a wounded fighter’s veins. Scarlet illustrates the violence of aggression and the fury unleashed in the moments of combat.

As the wounded soldier falls on the battlefield, his crimson blood represents the fragility of life. The birth of a baby releases a brilliant outpouring of color, but only the scarlet liquid rushing from a man’s veins captures the delicacy of human existence. His blood reminds him of his precious, limited time on Earth; he is a red-blooded animal, a mammal, a mortal destined for death from the moment he is born.

Just as the sight of blood heightens awareness of mortality, a red rose is also a living testament to life’s impermanence. From first blossom to death, this flower’s vibrant petals last only a few short weeks. Even while tucked safely in a porcelain vase, the rose’s death is inevitable. Quickly the color fades and the petals fall from the stem. The beauty of the rose truly lies in its fragility; because of its brief lifespan, each day the scarlet flower remains in bloom is another attestation to the fragile tenacity of life. Just like the rose, human life should be valued for its delicate beauty.

Every time a human being witnesses red, an unconscious message of love, lust, war, or life’s fast-approaching end is delivered to the mind’s door from the human heart. Amidst all of the chaos of his colorful world, man often neglects the powerful messages of red which subliminally overtake his psyche. The emotions inspired by crimson shades, however, should not be an accidental experience; human beings should purposely infuse their lives with the bold symbolism of red’s subliminal meanings. Just like the vibrant messages of scarlet, life must be deliberate. Every morning must be soaked in crimson meaning; each afternoon, with enriching, sanguine emotion, and every night, one must paint the town.

Today I had a nightmare at three AM. Today I sung, presented a few of Toulouse-Lautrec’s paintings (oil on cardboard), listened to a lecture, became inspired, wrote a poem, ate a tuna wrap, hid inside of myself, made flashcards, and viewed gram positive diplobacillius bacteria. which I stained. all on my own. Today I quickened my pace. I walked on the grass instead of the sidewalk. I drove home and unlaced my midcalf converse-inspired high tops and took a deep breath. Today isn’t over yet. The clock says “5:40.” So I am going to finish this blog. I am going to take a self-potrait, write three theses, and study level H vocabulary. And I am going to keep living like this. Until tomorrow.

Fuck coaches–they can wait another week or two until my feet figure it out for me. And that’s my latest epiphany.

This weekend has left me in a certain state of disillusionment—I am a college student stuffed into a high school-er’s awkward body. I crave the fifty-two minute classes, the locker room screaming popular dance tunes, home games under the lights. ‘Ray Bucknell.

Low tide welcomes beach-goers with Southern Hospitality and coaxes them into her arms. Skin glistens in sun’s sweet rays as her gentle crashes wet their pores. Sparkling waters wash over sand and playfully recede, beckoning children to discover the gentle, homemade current. A light breeze dances through sea grass and vacationer’s hair as the morning dove spies my pencil fluttering wings of its own. This island is defined by humid air of salt and surprise, sun-bleached wood and stepping stones, where water meets the horizon.

There is gum, fire gum, embedded in my mouth, pressing against damp cheek membrane. This soft, malleable substance burns, burns, burns as solid enamel crushes down onto it. Break and burn no more. Chew to burst the seams of red hot spicyness—relieve my senses, yet paint my taste buds rouge.

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The fog smothers the mountains this morning as I drive left-footed to school. Pure white cloud reminds me of those second grade mornings—bright fall leaves like colorful raindrops, covered with blankets of opaque moisture—where I stood, silent, on the blacktop.

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Brick buildings and dead grass haunt my aching memory—a ghost of dorm rooms, new faces, and sweat. Heat waves running through the window washed the small of my back, the top of your forehead. We did not imagine the reality of this horror—a zombie flick infused with classic suspense. We were oblivious to the solidity of characters transforming around us and taking horrific shape within the hour, twisting plots of far away post-high school wonder lands with gallons of fake blood. With gallons of real blood, because I am bleeding.