‘Twas the afternoon of Halloween, and all through the hood
All the children were stirring they were up to no good;
They dawned their costumes, ready to scare,
There was Batman, and Dracula, even Chewbacca was there;
Yet two costumes just couldn’t be missed;
Dawned by two little men, too cute to resist;
One was a pirate, the other a tiger,
And they would have been menacing if they were more than two feet higher,
With bags wide open and still missing teeth,
In baby language(I’m guessing) they exclaimed “Trick-or-Treat!”
For the first time in my (insert age here) years on earth, I finally participated in the annual nightly, door-to-door tradition of taking candy from strangers without it being considered solicitation of minors or as it’s more commonly known: Halloween. No, I did not dress up. Instead, I helped chaperone my one-year-old cousin and his two-year-old godbrother.
Now, seeing as it was, again, my first time celebrating Halloween (indirectly), I wasn’t really sure what to expect when we ventured down the block into the bustling throngs of costumed little boys and girls. I wasn’t expecting staunch organization — they’re kids— nor was I expecting all out brawls over various chocolate treats(although some parents were clearly more enthused than their children), but I was expecting more than one measly piece of brand-less, no-name candy. Television lied to me; no one was giving out jumbo sized candy bars or fistfuls of sweets. The Chinese restaurant was giving out fortune cookies instead of candy! A fortune cookie?! That was the biggest trick of night. However, even despite the stinginess of my cousin’s local vendors and neighbors, I definitely enjoyed myself and felt the exuberance all children feel in anticipation of the night’s ultimate prize: free candy.
Vast. That would be — is, my one word to describe it all.
Only mere spots, patches even, of green. Evergreens. The pine needles stay all year round, but now with the weather warming up, the trees seem to stand a bit…prouder, taller. They’re waiting for their chance to shine and overpower the landscape with a luscious brush stroke of a singular green. Even the road as intrusive and vast as it is, in it’s own right, is belittled. The road, I would describe as…vast, yes, but more so barren. At night you are alone. Not lonely: completely and utterly alone. It is pitch black, not a star in the sky to light the way until morning peeks out somewhere over the horizon; somewhere far off in the unknown. Even then you are still alone — there’s light, but it’s lonely. The sky begins to take hue, battling with itself between it’s familiar, uniform blue vs. the array of colors that paint the sky; that people whisper in awe and marvel at during these hours of daybreak. Customary morning dew coats the ground, blade by blade, but as you climb higher up the mountain there is fog. Fog that consumes and engulfs you. Fog that leaves us to our thoughts, the low buzz of the radio, and the roar of an engine.
It intrigues us.
It scares us.
It is the vastness of the world around us.
Some people can draw. They can draw what the rest of us imagine and bring it to life; they make it their own and create the spectacular.
Some people can sing. They can sing from the depths of their souls, making you feel things you never imagined. They can hit notes that do not seem humanly possible and make your eyes and ears cry with joy.
People can run, jump, skip, dance, fly, soar, ride, explore, discover…and then there’s me. I can write.
Now I’m not some recluse who stays shut in all day writing the memoirs of my stagnant life by a dimly lit lamp precariously perched upon the edge of my writing desk, envying those who revel in the freedom of being outside. No that’s not what I do. Everyday my head is bombarded with ideas: some good, some bad, some philosophical, some not exactly considered ‘normal‘, but they are ideas none the same. I like to write. I don’t love it, I don’t hate it. I’m pretty neutral about it (I’m kind of like the Switzerland of writing). I’ve learned to even enjoy some essay writing – depending on the topic or style (rhetorical essays being my new favorite thanks to Ms. Petuch). I like writing short stories. I hope to one day make one into a ‘long story’, but alas I am a procrastinator so we’ll see what happens.
Very rarely do people ever ask me to write about myself. Like most people, I’m never really sure or certain what to write about. I could impress you with wild tales of wonder and fancy that capture the mind and ensnare the senses. I could paint you a tale as vivid as a child’s imagination, yet just as sophisticated and tame as a gentlemanly game of chess. I could, but I won’t. Instead, I will just tell you this: I am seventeen years old, not entirely sure what I want to do with my life, and this is my blog.