I live in a fantasy, in a world where my writing means something. It’s depressing, how easily I can see it—how visible the line is between my ego and my worth. It’s a bitter spectrum I pray to turn over, I pray to be a matter of perspective rather than truth. Alas, I wake each day more unrealized than the previous—less annoying than the next.

I often wonder if I would be better suited for a world away—a generation or two. And I hold firmly to it, my muse of wisteria vines and old cottages; of flapper dresses and champagne—and dance by myself in my fantasy, spinning farther and farther away from the line of ego, the line of worth, in hopes I’ll no longer see it. And then, for once, I’ll be blissful as I await the convergence of my dreams and truth.

Her mind wouldn’t stop, and it was a beautifully awful thing. What led to her success, a pendulum of anxious paranoia to avoid the opposite—a type of irony lost on most of the weak-minded public; the folly of man, she called it. It was a cross to bear despite the privilege. Even in her best eves she would contemplate the next step on an endless case—if not just tipping over the railing itself. She found no solace in the presence of others—no matter how sincere or genuine; avoided people like the very plagues she found so interesting. She craved to be liked and by contrast feared doing likeable things. A Catch-22 fit for Fitzgerald, fighting to achieve everything he ever wanted, only to die with his likeness enraptured by failure. This—she supposed—was her destiny.

His mind was the calming waters of crater lake. The most beautiful of sights disrupted by a single contemptuous thing—his whimsical wife with expectations that far exceeded his god’s. He deserved the world and it wasn’t lost on her. Even in her fits of rage or besweetened bitterness, he opened his arms, and it was evident in those moments that he didn’t understand. But how beautiful this man for pretending, she thought. And so, she knew. Every morning that she suffered the misfortune to wake, and every evening she happily closed her eyes, she knew—that he was the only immortal flame that cradled her heart into the next. No one else could fight the demons of her soul with such sound grace, and she knew. Should their lives be damned, it was only a matter of time. Dimwitted and asinine in social affairs though she was; for as puffed as her chest grew at her contempt for the rest—she knew. Without him, she was nothing.

It was all a grand ruse. A mountain of success that could fall at the slightest whisper of tragedy and she begged to God above. Please don’t take him from me, or surely I shall follow.

And in her prayer—she knew.

A Poem for the Day

Kelsey Quick

Sixty degree mornings
Patterned, cloudy windstreams
The sip of saccharine coffee,
And warm breakfast cookies.
Pleasant, distant worlds
Penned in ink and magic,
In words I’ve yet to know.
In worlds I long to go.
But this one is good—for now.
This one is good.

It’s funny how days change like the seasons. Like contacts of perspective swapped between one night to the next morning. I can’t tell you how many times my attitude and outlook changes based on the kind of sleep I have. It’s a strange power I wish I could harness. Overall, our main objective in this life is finding the good days; more good days than bad, and more great experiences than lukewarm. This morning I had the opportunity to wake up into a good head space, which was very much needed. The tides of yesterday brought about a lot of insecurities and discontentment. But today is new, anything is possible. And I have high hopes that it’s a good day.

This weekend was a crazy one.

It was filled with memorable experiences and times with family and friends that I wouldn’t trade for the world—but I wouldn’t exactly call it relaxing or easy. I’m one of those introverts that complains about everything I have to do in the throes of society until I actually get out there and do it, then I’m all smiles and thankful that I went. Christian, my husband, knows this all too well about me and will often use it as an argument-winner to get me out of the house.

Hormones are a crazy thing.

Being female can be a curse uneasily handled, especially when cortisol levels are at an all time high from the first 8 hours of the day. And let me tell you, limited calories can really draw out the metaphorical claws under all previous conditions.

I reached Sunday night exasperated and spent. I was “hangry,” as I often am after about 4 hours of long, hard fasting, and I was stuck in a situation where I couldn’t do anything I was hoping to do (ie. write and eat, of course). And when I say hangry, I mean hANGRY. Like, angry enough that I’m looking myself in the mirror and asking, “what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you THIS mad?”

Spoiler: the next day would mark the time of the month that highlighted why I was indeed “this mad.”

Anyway, my husband is amazing and stopped at Panera to satisfy my desperate need for carbs. While waiting outside the drive-thru window, we were talking about something that was in-depth enough that I didn’t quite catch what the lady in the window said to me. In fact, I thought I heard so wrong that I had one of those drawn out, visible pauses and asked, “What?”

She looks me in the eye and says, “I just… You’re really pretty.”

I now realize that I hadn’t heard her wrong. She first said, “You’re so beautiful.”

Stunned, I kind of laughed and stumbled over my compliment-handling skills. “Uh, wow um… thank you!”

She closed the window with a smile on her face and suddenly everything I was just talking about (more likely ranting about) disappeared. I couldn’t remember anything. I stared out the dash for quite some time before Christian says, “Well, that made your night, huh?”

I nodded and replied, “That’s so weird.”

What the woman said wasn’t weird, nor were her intentions. What was weird is how her saying that one sentence could turn over my entire world; it was weird that something so simple could produce such joy; it was weird acknowledging that its because there is such a lack of affirmation generosity and bravery in this world, that it causes forgetfulness, the welling of tears, and the subtle change in perspective that made the rest of the night a little bit brighter for me.

I made sure to return the gesture, but she wasn’t the one who returned to the window. As the other girl reached out to hand me my food, I said, “Hey, I just wanted you to know that you’re beautiful, and please tell Chloe she is, too.”

How often is it that you notice someone’s name tag in the drive-thru? For me, it’s rare. But I noticed Chloe’s immediately after she first spoke to me in a more than human way.

I hope Chloe knows she is far more beautiful than me.

Much love,
Kelsey<3