After School

The dream's gone out, like the lights in the wake of the janitor. The doors that once seemed so big now shrink before my frame. Mere weeds have now become trees, a canopy above me, blocking out the sky. Chains on the swings now squeak not with use, but with rust. The sun sinks behind me, it's glare spreading to the windows. Behind the streaked glass sit dusty books and paper houses, yellowed by the unending flow of days.

There is no rest for this place, it endures tirelessly, unwillingly. Cigarettes and condom wrappers litter the ground where once before there were juice boxes and failed tests. Shards of glass sprout up from the ground in places where violets and dandelions once grew. Laughter echoes in the approaching dusk, harsh and bitter. Before there were giggles that bounced between the wooden rungs of the monkey bars.

The air still holds the lingering smell of rubber and asphalt. The cement still shows the fading lines of four square and hopscotch. A thousand sneakers have flattened these paths, but I remember only my own. Shoelaces untied, hair twisted by the breeze. Strong winds blow now, as night quiets the secrets housed beneath the rocks and sticks. All that has come and gone, and has yet to be seems to take flight in the stubborn wind.

There is nothing here for me. Distant memories, ideas torn and shredded by reason. The future is no longer a grand adventure, but a haunting shadow ever upon my heels. My hands are stained with blood instead of paint, my face marred with ash instead of fresh dirt. I am no longer a creator, but a destroyer. My footprints are too big, my voice too loud in the quiet of this place. My mind is sealed shut against its lingering wisdom, my heart hardened against its last whispers. This is a sacred place, a hallowed place. I dirty it with my presence. I stain it with my lofty thoughts. I desecrate it with my account of it.

The dream is dead.

We Write.

We write on napkins. We write on the backs of receipts. We write on scraps of cardboard. We write on street signs and in the stalls of public bathrooms. We write in the dirt, in the dust and in the ashes.

We write when we're happy. We write when we're sad. We write when we're angry and we write when we're excited. We write through tears. We write when we feel like it. And sometimes when we don't. We write in the midst of fond memories. We write to ourselves. We write to lovers. We write to enemies.

We write letters. We write notes. We write memoirs. We write obituaries. We write articles. We write stories. We write poems and we write threats. We write cries for help. We write the truth. We write lies.

We write our thoughts. Our emotions. Our fears. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our secrets. Our desires. Our sins. Our joys. Our tragedies. Our confessions.

We write because we can't imagine what would happen if we don't. We can't bear to think about what would become of us if we weren't allowed to scribble our feeble thoughts down in messy marker, blotchy pens and dull pencils.

We are poets. We are authors. We are children. We are men. We are women. We are young. We are old. We are wise. We are foolish. We are students. We are teachers.

We live. We die.

We write.

We are.