The Futility of Invincibility

I'm all for adrenaline rushes. I am the first person to respond to a drum riff in a song I'm playing in the car by revving up the engine. I'll accelerate to up to fifteen miles over the speed limit, while in the middle of a sharp turn, and I'll be feeling the thrill like nothing else. There is nothing like the feeling of being chased. I will be hiking on a trail in the middle of the woods, and suddenly take off, just to pretend I'm being pursued - or pursuing. And I love the feeling of danger, of the unknown. But all too often, I am confronted with how fragile it all can be, and how mortal I am.

I learned a long time ago that I am not invincible. My mortality is the same as the person next to me, or the person next to you. It's always so amusing to me how old I sound when I say things like this, but I developed a good understanding of the world very early on in my life. My mother calls me her "cynical daughter" for this very reason: I made my mind up about the workings of the universe long before anyone else my age did, and not much has changed my perception. All it took for me to realize how mortal I really am was looking at the wasting away of my friends as they delved into dangerous waters: drugs, meaningless sex, and adventures into darker, raunchier places. When few of them made it out the same as before - and I do mean they were mere husks of who they were before - I knew that not only are we physically mortal, but we are also mentally mortal. They played with fire and found an addiction in getting burnt. Sometimes getting a rush is not worth the risks we take.

This is one I wrote when I was undergoing that passage from naivete to cynicism.

Bridge from Childhood


The most beautiful place that I've ever walked
was a bridge, stony, weathered and laced with ivy.
Bracing waters that it shadowed, it held a century of love and war,
childhood play and adult tears. And I walked there with you, so long ago.
In your arms, I stayed and watched the moon rise up and kiss your face, and danced between streetlight and fenced trees.
And in my darkest hour, I'd sob into the stone, which would hold me up
when I felt like falling apart.

And that beauty I know to be true is a monument to the teenage ruin
that came to pass and fall with each flirting child who lost their virgin tongues
to a night as black and velvet as their cloaks of secrets given in tribute to the obsidian river.
Begotten lies and trades that would eventually be harvested in the incest,
and all their hopes to be grown-up drown as they realize that they lost their identities
trying to be someone else.

In the reflection of an empty wine bottle left from the frivolities of two lovers,
I saw my heart burst, wishing I could be the river.
Wishing I could pass by the darkness in my heart, that while shining
like a jewel in the eyes I once dared to gaze in, was not to be lingered on.
I wished to be a river, to be carried away into the sea
where nothing is left to meaningless dreams.
And no more would I linger on this stony bridge, where I passed over
a chance to be ever changing.