Smooth Features

John had arrived home beaten by the world. His car broke down in the parking lot at work. His boss yelled at him in, what had been thought to be, the safety of his office. He had spilled coffee all down his shirt. And now, money was low. So low, there were barely any funds for food for the last week of the month. John had fell into his couch in defeat, not knowing what to do about sustenance. John lived in poverty all his life. But he never experienced a time when providing for himself became an issue.
He then thought of some change he might have in an old bank he made. John flung himself from the couch and went to his closet. Upon opening, a few old shoes, some with missing laces, some with holes ground through the bottom, and a few clothes he never wore, that were bought from a thrift store, fell from the cramped pile. John pushed some boxes on the top shelf to the side, spilling other items onto the floor. Eventually, he found his closed jar. It was something he had made years before in art class. It was indeed a coin holder. It was oblong in shape; flat on the bottom, and fairly egg shaped around, with a thin and poorly made slot. The coin slot was not centered at the top. It was as if the cooking process had allowed the once centered slot to droop over from the heat. Since there was no opening on the bottom to retrieve the coins easily, John had to decide if the coins inside were worth it. John shook the jar hoping for a hefty rattle.
Cracking into the piggy bank, hope did not thrive. A few coins, barely enough for a meal consisting of fast food; a onetime meal, fell from the shattered mess. The hopeful savings account was now smashed to bits of ceramic shrapnel.
John sat. Shifting through the coins, he humored himself by arranging the coins. After counting, it summed up pocket change. John looked around to ensure himself that he found every coin that fell from the exploded pig. One penny found its way across the room, almost hidden within the brown 70’s carpet.

Upon picking it up, John noticed that the surface touching his index finger was smooth. Turning the coin in hand, the face of the president that once was on the coin was now a silhouette of a figure. Only one side of the penny had been greatly smoothed out by a previous owner. The penny’s face was unknown. The words were gone. The details, vanished. John’s thumb found its way from one side to the other, again and again, feeling its soft surface. It entranced him.
John forgot about hunger. John forgot about the other change. He leaned back against the rim of his bed and contemplated the coin. His thumb moving from the left to the right, and back again. John sat, feeling the coin until day break the next morning. Even then, all he did was stare at the coin and feel its soft surface.

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Revitalized Legacy pt.2

Elden slept for most of the day. When he finally sat up from bed, his shirt tore away from the bed, and stretched away from his skin, in sweat. For him, it was like a wet band aid that was stuck on for far too long, slowly being peeled from the skin. Mid-summer was unbearable for most, but for Elden it was a relief. The simple refreshing satisfactions on days of peaked heat. To experience the exhaustion and beat down of the day cooking someone alive, then a cool breeze, or a wet pull of clothes from the skin allowing a cool touch, integrates itself into life, and everything seems to be marvelous. Even if only for a few seconds. Today was one of Elden’s favored days of the week–his day off.

Elden still lived with his parents in their average suburban home. It was a two story house, fair sized yard; front and back, and everything was always clean. After changing into clothes which did not stink of a gym locker that has gone years without cleaning–rancid onions, Elden set off for a walk. The walk was not long, since Elden’s goal was the neighborhood park only blocks away. With a large book wedged under one arm and a half eaten apple in hand, Elden felt that this day was already off to a good start.

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Revitalized Legacy pt.1

A child ran across the open yard of a Victorian house. Ecstatic emotion enveloped the child’s face, running across the field, bolting by towers of bodies, nudging into a few legs along the way. One towered figure held a hand out to the child in an attempt to slow their progress. There was no slowing down for the child. The child finally reached the end of their destination–a table strewn with gifts of all shapes and sizes, colors and even textures. However, the child’s eyes rested on the pièce de résistance; the cake.

A three tiered cake, each tier separated by pillared stands. It sat alone in the middle of all the child’s other selfish pleasantries. Staring for a while, focusing only on the cake, darkness began to engulf everything else around it, allowing the only light possible to shine from the ground image of that masterpiece. The child knew that the exterior was vanilla, even the pinks and the blues giving the cake definition and design would be vanilla, but the child hoped that the interior would be a sweet strawberry. The child stood, only yards away, imagining it melt in their mouth. Taking a step toward the cake, the child felt that they were committing a wrongful act. That there was a velvet rope holding those back with temptation, and the child was crossing it without permission. There wasn’t a rope holding anyone back, but the child felt that there should. With each step closer to the cake the child’s heart pounded harder, looking back and forth among the bodies much taller than they making sure they wouldn’t be caught. The child stood just before the cake. Eying its features once again, the child noticed all the divots in the frosting made from quickened, sloppy work by the bakers, the grease that the icing secreted, and the highly detailed work with the flowers and wavy borders in multitudes of colors. The child loved it more so, for all of its beauty and imperfections.

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Meditative Realities

Lying in bed after a long, busy day, meditation was generally needed. I would position myself on my back as a plank, palms faced upright, and relax. White light, protection, readying my meditation.

How I began meditations before was to imagine myself in a forest. Forcing myself to feel the leaves rustling and bursting into fragments underneath my feet and between my toes. Looking out among the trees, an endless, open forest awaited to be discovered. Not a lot of time was spent there. Once I was done with the forest, I moved to the beach instantly.
A long, crescent, sandy beach would stretch out to the horizon on either side. Wrapping around to disappear among the trees that bordered the sand. I would imagine myself sitting at the beach front and contemplate. While there, I would make sure I felt the sand that bound itself to me. The salty breeze that seemed never-ending. And once in a while, when I would allow it, the water that made its way up the beach and puddle around my feet. Once I was ready for new scenery, I would change it. The last, and most memorable spot of meditation, was the field.
I always appeared on a hill side across from the main attraction. In a groove in the land, surrounded by hills all of the same size, stood a lone tree. A very large tree. Its roots one with the earth, none straying from perfection. The bark was rough to the eyes, but gentle to touch. It resembled an oak tree with a longer trunk. Beside the tree was a marble bench. Fit for two. After admiring the tree for a few minutes, I would take a seat. Once again, I’d make sure I felt the cool marble beneath my flesh. With a few more minutes here, breathing deeply, I would wake myself from the meditation. At times, I would feel better. It was very calming.

That is how I use to meditate.

I have found a quicker way to achieve the calming state of mind.

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Another Transition of Life

I never intended to start my blog this way, but, through recent and changing events, I chose that I would.

Many years ago, I was approached by someone part of a community event. Handing me a brochure, the person preached about how if a person were to consume only half the meat they currently consume, they will save x amount of animals. That was the start. My next push was my brother. I declared to him that I had an interest in becoming vegetarian. With wide eyes he told me that he attempted such an endeavor. “I could only last two weeks,” was his response. What started my vegetarianism was a single thought. I could top that. So, onward my transition went into the non-meat world. I had no clue what I was doing then, and I have no clue what I am doing now.

Many years have passed, keeping true to vegetarianism. With the occasional, accidental meat in my dish at a restaurant.
Now, feeling accomplished by exceeding my brothers attempt, I chose another transition.

Becoming vegan.

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