the art of

three » wisdom

"How was your day?" I asked Alex as we headed towards the bus stop. His face looked a little sad as if the first day of school was a reminder that our freedom had been snatched from our hands. "You okay?"

"N-Not really. I-I-I c-can't e-even intro-d-duce myself with-h-out em-ba-barassing me. I hate st-st-tuttering." We sat down on a tree stump a few feet away from the stop.

"Have you always stuttered?"

"N-No. I-I got into a c-car acc-c-cident when I was l-little. It mess-s-ed up m-my speech."

"I'm sorry." I bumped his shoulder with mine as he ducked his head down.

"It s-sucks."

"I don't know how it feels to have your vocals working fine one day and the next you can't even utter a syllable, so I won't give you any of that I know how you feel crap. What I do know is the feeling of sadness. The feeling of being trapped in the ocean, surrounded by all of your flaws—that constantly presses into you, with its hands wrapped around your soul; it chokes you till the last breath pulses out of your veins. So, when you do feel this aching pain, this disheartening sadness hugs you too tightly, you just stand there dully.

A dull impatience or maybe it is a fierce velleity that stings the edge of a tongue when you try to speak with a lump in your throat. A mind trapped in a white box with no windows or doors, empty of color and imagination, darkened only by the hatred seeping through the veins of the one sitting in the middle—a realization that this sadness has invented nothing, merely bearing witness to the world spinning around it. It just listens to the owl hoot as the mouse scurries through the woods, watching the fist curl up and hit the chest of a young child—just standing there, watching, listening, smelling, doing absolutely nothing while we sit here and get swallowed."

"Is t-t-his sup-p-p-posed to m-make me f-f-feel be-etter? Be-ecause it re-aally isn't."

"This feeling you're experiencing—it's all temporary. Sure, it does absolutely nothing but ruins your day, which is so precious. But it's temporary. You have twenty-four hours to live. Tomorrow, if we're all lucky, we will wake up. And then we have another twenty-four hours. And, fortunately, repeat. Let's make most of that twenty-four hours while we can, okay? I mean, school is eight hours, homework is around five hours—that's thirteen hours gone. Eight hours of sleep—three hours left. Eat and shower—an hour. And then? Two hours left to just ourselves. To stare up at the sky and wonder about conspiracy theories or to listen to our favorite band blast through speakers as we splash paint on a white wall. Or maybe scribble words of some poetic nonsense. Whatever you like. Make use of it. We're in the most vital years of our life, where we can walk a few steps and not feel like our back is breaking. Let's make use of our backs not breaking, eh?"

"T-Thank you, A-Alice."

"I try. And screw anyone who dares to tell you that you're not important enough or that you can't succeed in life without having a clear speech. Most of the people who even tell you these atrocities are struggling with their own flaws but are too ignorant to admit it. So just take in their lies, brush it off, and realize that they are crazy hooligans."

"W-What's y-your st-st-story?"

"What?"

"Y-You t-talk p-po-poetic-cally. That m-means you h-have l-lived a h-hard life."

"I don't know. I have a roof over my head. I have a plate of food in the fridge when I come home. I have a closet full of clothes. A bed to rest on with two pillows. I have shoes that keep my feet dry when Mother Nature is sad and starts crying. I have two parents. A brother. I don't have a reason to be sad."

"J-Just because y-you l-live in a g-good envi-vironment d-doesn't m-mean that the p-people a-around you are good. A-Are they?"

"N-No." I bit my lip and twirled my fingers, letting them dance with one another. "Sure, he drinks all day. Sure, he is stuck on one path, the same gravel and dirt underneath his feet as he chugs it down, crawling up the money he could have had and digging his nails into words—squeezing their meanings out of them, hoping to find a key that will yank him off the path of the liquor. Sure, he fills his lungs with a toxic monster, letting it slap him across the face, and then he goes and hugs it. Sure, I cough all night and reek of his stench. Sure, sure, sure. But it's okay. It could be worse, right?" I gulped down the misery and breathed it out. Not now, Alice. Not now.

"D-Do yo-you want t-to talk a-about it?"

"No, I'm okay." I got up and pulled out the bus change. "I see the bus coming."

"You remind me of a flawed star."

"What's that?"

"It's like..A p-person who is ir-r-rreparably bro-k-ken, barely b-beating, wandering aimlessly in the sky, trying to find a home it can shar-e-e with someone, love someone, but no, instead, they fall d-deeper into sp-aace with flaws cli-n-nging to their to-n-ngue-s-s like a bi-t-tter afte-r-rtaste of fa-t-te; one who nev-ver finds the answers in dusty, torn books, but in ta-angled cons-s-tellatio-o-ns in their palms. They try to make a meaning of e-even the tiniest thing, like an ant. They try to give something, an-y-ything, a meaning be-ecause they think that they, the-emselves, lack in meaning. I think y-you think like that. I think that he has made you think that you're not worth it. Tha-t-t you can't f-feel any other e-emotion because it c-could be worse. An-d-d I think t-that's stupid. Yes, there are other p-eeople in the world who are fighting ho-r-rrible battles, but just because y-you're not on a l-landfill doesn't mean that you c-a-an't feel like you're about to e-explode. You m-might not u-underst-a-and what I am sa-a-y-ying because of this stu-u-pid st-stutter but I hope you-u can feel my genuine care. If you need to talk, I'm h-h-ere."

"Thank you, Alex."

Correction: You saved me from almost breaking down.