Shadow Lines

A slow, soft rumble echoes in the distance. Anticipation stirs the silent night and soon the humming grows louder with pangs and shrill yelps of bells followed by haunting bellows winding through the dark, hollow streets.  Industrious chugs matched by screechy wheels and throbbing carts dressed with art and scribble.  A lone car sits purring at a flashing red light waiting to cross the tracks to scurry into the cool walls of a garage.

The dawn breaks, and morning glistens on the dew dripped tracks.  Cars whir past daring an engine sitting stagnantly to budge after its long night flight.  Right at ten minutes to eight, the beast stirs and takes its turn to stretch and slide across its tracks creating a blockade for all of the impatient minivans and eco cars that had sprinted from their burrows, but who squelched to a stop at seeing those damned red lights blinking tauntingly.

The beast moves again and silents the lunch rush hour.  The drumming fingers on steering wheels keep time for the painfully shrill wheels and monotonous chugs.  The symbol of a past wonder, a past of struggle, pauses the trendy cars and pedestrians to try to make them consider the massive trip it has forgone.  The fingers keep on drumming, and sighs escape the mouths of frazzled businessmen in response to the blasting horns.  The drum, drum, drum of fingers soon fades into the whump, thump, clump of axes, picks, and shovels being thrown into the dirt from the strong shoulders of the men of 1860.

The labour injustice, and discrimination have long since been buried beneath the worn tracks, and the train passing seems merely too large of an inconvenience for some travelers.  Beneath those tracks though, lies an important piece of dark history; an important connector to our modern world and high fashioned life.  The old, stout cars are no longer a sign of wealth or freedom to travel to untamed land, but instead are predictable hunks of metal that sit rusting from weathering sun and rain.  The cars are like the arms of those men, though, that fought through the torrential winters and treacherous terrain.  They buried their blood and bones in those rails, and the tracks now cover their forced labour entirely.

America sought out those impoverished Irish and Chinese men to complete an essential part of her growth.  She fed off the weak to get stronger, and encouraged the rich to turn their cheeks to the suffering.  The sin of the rich is still buried beneath the tracks.  Now even the middle class man groans whenever he hears the blaring horn of a train...

I have to wonder as I stand admiring the majestic train if my life is much like America, though.  Am I unforgivingly forcing myself in my weakest places so that the strong parts of my identity can survive? Do I lay tracks over the parts of my character that I feel are worthless, or that I am ashamed of?  I am trying to appear so strong and modern - I am the face of the new generation.  Alas, though, I only do what anyone would do if faced with the most demanding of situations though... I sacrifice internal justice so that I can appear to be externally strong and industrious.  I know it is wrong, but I do it anyway - life must be a thing of control, right?

Wrong. Wrong. Wring. Clang. The train answers for me.  Justice must be served, the truth must be revealed, or else my truest self will break in rebellion and strike.  I will break free from the tracks I have laid upon myself.  No longer will the axes of society pick away at my identity, nor will the hammers of lies plunder upon my shoulders.  I will break free, and ride the paths much like the travelers who knew no sort of what was to behold in the unexplored West.  Yes, it may be dangerous, but it will be beautiful and momentous.  It will connect all parts of me -- the established, and the unestablished.  Yes, in the eyes of others I may be seen as a nuisance, and annoyance, but I will stand for my past, and cling to my future,  The paths are uncharted and crisp, and soon my whistle will have no enclosures to bounce off of -- I will be entirely free.  Have I sacrificed some of myself, yes.  Am I proud of this, no.  The future lies ahead though, so I will continue to chug forward, with my wheels spinning towards a brighter beginning.  

Digging

Whether digging in our gardens, through our book bags or purses, or even old boxes, there's a small sense of urgency that we feel.  We are looking, searching, and sometimes even frantically rooting through the other pieces that stand in our way of finding what we really want.  Even the small tinges of anxiety we feel cannot nearly compare to the expectations we have, though -- after all, we wouldn't even begin to search for things at all if we didn't think we were going to find anything.

Most of my life I have spent digging.  Even today I was sorting through old boxes trying to unearth some of the early writings I had done.  I eventually found them after glancing through old yearbooks, scrapbooks, and diaries!  And, after looking at those things, I realized with great surprise that even in those documents I often expressed how I felt like something was missing from my life, or how I knew something was yet to come.  Even after all of those years, I still feel that way -- that my life is not nearly complete, and that there is still so much to come, so I continue to dig from time to time.

A few short months ago, I hit a major milestone in my life; I graduated from college, and was on my way to a big and bright future.  I still am on that track, even though I took a slight detour by digging through some rocks that looked like gems.  And this, my friends, is where digging gets tricky.  Sometimes we uncover things that seem so valuable, but after close examination, we realize that it was a 'knock off'.  We might feel ashamed, maybe embarrassed, or even scared to admit that we were wrong about our previous assumptions.  For some, it may even take years to admit to others that they had not been honest with anyone-- not even themselves.  That is why I'm stepping out of my comfort zone now.  I will admit that I thought I had found a gem, but it very quickly revealed that it was not.  I will also admit that part of my mistake was to not examine it as closely as I should have before grasping it out of the ground, but I will not take the blame for its false appearance.

Although this fake gem was a major disappointment, it was also a very good learning experience.  It reminded me to always examine, to never assume, and to never take anything for granted.  It also taught me that there is much value in a simple looking rock -- yes, they may not be so shiny or smooth, but they have character and honesty in their uneven surfaces.  They are not synthetic, so therefore they have stories that written history has no records of.  They make great building blocks and can even crushed to be made into the streets that connect us to our families and friends.  We may not always appreciate them, but they still remain, strong as ever.

So the next time your shovel hits a rock, examine it.  Although it may seem like a hindrance, it could contain more treasure than what you originally may have anticipated.  Same story goes if you find what appears to be a gem -- remember that it may not always be what it appears to be.  But, if you are lucky enough to uncover a true gem, remember to be grateful.  They are rare and beautiful and contain many precious memories.  Share them with those around you, and encourage them to continue digging even when they feel that all hope is buried.  

Shards

Standing still, cemented to the surface, and swarmed by superficial flakes when shook by the hands of someone larger than I.  I am a figurine, fragile, fearful and framed by this glass dome that I've been living under for far too long.  I long for freedom, frivolity, and happiness -- I deserve these things.  I will break free.  I'll find my feet once again.  If I could just find a way to free my self from this glue.  I peer out at the world as they stand above me, picking me up and shaking my world, turning me upside down, almost dropping me.

Glass cannot hold me back anymore.  I will let go of the fear of hitting the ground.  My glass may break, but they will no longer have hold of me.  My legs will stretch, my breath will restore, my voice will be heard.  Yes, I will no longer have the protection-- I'll feel naked and cold, but they will regret what they've done.  They will still try to hurt me, but what they have forgotten is that shards of glass will hurt them too.