Circles

We all run around circles. Why doesn't anyone run around in a square? Do we think that by being rigid we will get anywhere different? A square still just starts back from where it started, same as a circle. You might think it has a defined start point, or one of four, but who ever said a square had to start at a vertex? A square has just as many infinitely possible starting points as a circle does.

Circles or squares, they're all ultimately the same: unified shapes, ink marks that don't really go anywhere. How do we get somewhere? Should we be rays, starting at one point and going straight on forever? Maybe we should, but we aren't. No one is really a circle or square either. There is no definite word to describe what we are, other than irregular. We are irregular and ill-defined shapes. We know where we start, or at least where our parents tell us we start, but none of us really knows where we end. Do we end at all?

And yet, in spite of this, we keep circling back around, returning to a point we previously saw. We aren't perfect circles, but the pen sure crosses back on itself a lot. If you drew your life, what would it look like? If you drew your emotions, your level of success, your satisfaction or joy, your wealth? How many times have you crossed back on yourself? Are you always getting stronger and better or do you relapse from time to time? I know you aren't always happy, but you aren't always sad either. What kind of shape are you?

Each one of us is our own unique shape, but yet we are all somehow the same. I don't think there is anyone who has never crossed back, but I also don't think there is anyone who has followed a perfect and predictable path. Learn from the shapes around you, take the parts of their journey that are good and noble and true and avoid the ones that aren't. Follow their examples or run from them, the choice is yours. There will be curves and bends, perhaps some rigid spots and others that are loopy, but there's no need to worry, you aren't really a circle. No one is.

Beautiful

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I just wish I had told her before it was too late.

I remember the way she used to look. I remember her brilliant mind. I never appreciated her and just how much she had to offer. I took her for granted. Worse, I was harsh on her, always demanding more, telling her that her good wasn't good enough and that she could never measure up. I think I just wanted so much for her to succeed that I pushed her to believe she never could.

She was a smart girl, maybe not the smartest ever, but plenty smart, and not just smart, but clever. She seemed to have an uncanny ability to see through how people acted to how they really felt. She called people out many times on things only to have them react in shock to how spot on she was. Of course, they could have just been being nice, but they certainly seemed genuine. She had a gift for people, but it was also her curse. She cared about people deeply, but also about what they thought of her, or about what she thought they thought of her.

I think her opinion of others' opinions of herself was a lot more negative than it actually was. Even though people complimented her, she often thought they were lying. She assumed she was right because she was so keen on telling when they hid things about herself, but so inept at thinking they were hiding things about her. And if she ever called them on it and they denied, she just felt even worse since either her intuition had been wrong, which was bad, or they really did dislike her, which was worse.

And even if people had thought poorly of her, why should she care? She was smart and pretty and generous. She gave of herself and all she wanted was to be loved in return, but she never felt loved enough because she never felt successful enough. She never felt she deserved to be loved, and so she never thought she was loved. If only I had told her, reminded her that she was loved. But I never did. I did the most damage of all. I demanded the most and expected the least and hurt her more than any.

And now it's too late. Now her clothing is tattered and torn, her hair is dirty, and she can barely even stand to look at people, yet alone help them. She can't help them. Everything good in her life is gone. The people who showed even a little bit of faith in her are gone. They left her to the streets and the drugs, the only things that seem to help now. I know it's wrong; I know it's all so wrong, but I just can't help it, I can't get back what I once was.

I know I was beautiful once. I know it, I remember it. I tell myself every day that I was beautiful. Why didn't I tell myself I was beautiful when it was true? Why didn't I have more confidence? Why did I tear myself down, drag myself into the ground until I got where I am now and I just can't get up again? I was to be her. I want to be that girl I once was, but I can't. I am lost. I will never be beautiful again.

Stranger

He was a stranger, an outsider from the start. He could pretend to be one of us, but he never really was.

He was born under suspicious circumstances to a whore of a woman who cheated on her fiance and somehow still convinced him to not only marry her, but raise her illegitimate child as his own. The husband never asked questions, at least not that I could tell. He was a good man, much too good for her.

But this story isn't really about them, it's about the boy.

He wasn't born in town exactly, but his mother and fake father were from here, so that was enough for him to claim to be one of us, or at least for those who admired him to claim he was one of us. But that's getting ahead of things a bit. You see, it all started quite early on. From a very young age, you could tell he was criminally ingenious. He could converse with scholars before he was even a teenager and make them think he really knew what he was talking about. It was a sham, it had to be, but he must have been smart if he managed to trick even the most learned of the scholars.

That was just one part of it though. He also had this perverse sense of who had value and who didn't. Even though his mother and her husband were generally well-liked and respected in town, despite of her whorish indiscretion, he chose to hang out with the wrong crowd. Okay, so I have to admit, his mother was not literally a whore, but some of the women he hung out with were. He hung out with the dregs of society, but he didn't act like them. I don't understand what they all loved about him. He didn't seem to really approve of what they were doing, but still they flocked to him, like somehow their lives could be okay if they could just be his friend. It was a bunch of bull is what it was.

And not only did he hang out with the rejects, but he rejected the truly noble and upright citizens. People like my family, who were always putting on fundraisers and starting scholarship funds and generally making this crappy world a better place, those are the people he called out and accused of being wrong. What right did he have anyway? He was out there hanging out with druggies and whores and thieves, the ones who were always busy ruining our plans and dragging the world down into the dumpster, and he defended them and condemned us. He said we were doing the things we do for all the wrong reasons. He said we just wanted to be seen, noticed, praised by others. Well, so what? Isn't that what we all want? A little recognition? He said we were wrong to cast aside his "friends" as lost causes. Well I don't know who he thought he was, but those people didn't want to change. They couldn't change. It was just in their blood to be what they were. Why did he think he could change them, and why did he think he needed to change us?

I hated him. I hated him with all his perverse niceness and misplaced blame. Who was he and what was he doing for the world? Well, actually, here's where we get into the part that drives me the most crazy. See, you might wonder why anyone bothered to listen to this lunatic at all, and I think this next bit has a large amount to do with it. You see, he didn't just talk at people, he did stuff, magic-level stuff that was clearly impossible. I honestly still can't figure out how he did most of it, but I know it wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. And yet, people gobbled it up. They watched in amazement as he produced things out of "thin air" and made them think their diseases were gone. People said he had "authority" but what I think is that he had some really slick slight of hand. I can't figure out how he did his stuff yet. I'd think he just had lots of accomplices, but there were just so many of them, many of whom were known well beforehand, that I think there must have been something more up his sleeve.

And yet, in spite of the outrageous impossibility of all he was doing and saying, people still believed in him. They still thought this sham of a man was for real. I think he gave them some sick sense of hope that they couldn't get anywhere else. They depended on him instead of on themselves. Those of us who strove for order and righteousness were going to be plain kicked out of town if he didn't stop, either by his "followers" or by the government.

Oh, that's the other thing I forgot to mention. People weren't all that happy in general with the state of our government at the time. And although this man wasn't openly hostile towards the regime (in fact, he even encouraged paying our dues to society), it was clearly implied that he was going to do something. That got people really fired up and excited, but it was clearly dangerous, too. You see, a delicate balance had been established in the government, one that a wise person was not all that willing to break. Sure, things could have been better, but they also could have been a lot worse, and if this charlatan kept gaining followers, they certainly were going to get a lot worse.

And that's when we finally decided something had to be done. The prestigious families all got together and had a little talk about this trouble-maker. He had to go. But if we just kicked him out, we knew he would come back and get the people more stirred up than ever. We had to take care of him for good.

Some might call it mob justice, but it was justice nonetheless. This man was truly up to no good. If we didn't get rid of him, he was going to destroy our town and perhaps our entire society. Even his own closest friends were turning on him by the end. I have to admit, I got some real satisfaction out of that.

And so he was gone, and soon to be forgotten, until the rumors started to spread. It was impossible, beyond impossible in fact, but people claimed that this man was still at work. Somehow from beyond the grave, his so called "teachings" were still spreading. Some crackpots even claimed to have seen him in town again. Some of these men were even respected once, but they've lost any shred of respect I once had for them, that's for sure.

It's madness, all of it. That those whose sins are the worst can be the most loved, that those of us who do the most good should be reprimanded, that there is more to this life than this life. None of it makes any sense and I refuse to believe a word of it, but still so many do. So many trust that this stranger knew what he was doing, even that he was more than a mere mortal. They're crazy, all of them. I know that this man was just a man, and was nothing more than a stranger.

Believe

I hear it all the time, people telling me I don't exist. I'm sick of it. I'm real; I know it. I have thoughts and emotions just like all of them. How do you think it feels that every time I show up, they freak out and tell me I'm not real, that I'm all in their head. They pace back and forth, muttering to themselves and trying to ignore me. They act like I'm not even there because they don't want me to be.

I'm just doing my job; I'm just trying to help them. They're in denial, all of them. They'd rather pretend I don't exist than to hear what I have to say, to seriously consider that they could be wrong about things or that their life needs a change. I know it's hard, I understand that. Well, maybe I don't understand as well as they do, but at least I try. They don't even put in an effort.

I know this sounds a lot like complaining. That's not what I mean to do. There are a few, a select few, who really truly believe. Those are the best. I love it when I get to go talk to them. It fills me with such joy to see their faces develop from shock to uncertainty, but then finally to the realization that yes this is real, it is really happening, and there is really a purpose to it all. They knew it already and it gives me such joy to confirm it for them. Those are the easy ones.

But the others, they drive me crazy. They think me showing up is a sign that they are insane, but it isn't. Every once in a while, one is so insistent that I almost start to doubt myself. Almost. But I know I'm real. I'm as real as they are. They just refuse to see it.

The most frustrating thing of all is that I really am there to help. Sometimes I'll say things they like and sometimes I won't, but either way they don't even want to give me the chance. They don't even know if it's bad news or not, they just shut me out right away, because they don't believe. But I believe, of course I believe, it's tied up in my whole purpose.

So if you see me one day, please don't be afraid. There is nothing to fear. Someone is watching out for you. That should comfort you, not terrify you. And if I have some rebuke for you, be thankful for that, too. It might be hard, but it will only make things better. And please, don't pretend I don't exist. That is the absolute worst reaction, and the one I get all too often. Don't try to convince yourself that what you're seeing isn't real, that you're crazy. I assure you, I am real. I'm as real as your own self. More real even.

I have my missions, and I'm only doing my job, a job I would love so much more, if you would just believe.