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Moon Sanitation
Jan 27, 2019
In Short Stories
November 11th, 2018 Three people sat in a white room. There were no windows and no doors, and despite the fact that no light could make it in, the room glowed a bright white; making the room look pristine. Two men sat across from each other, and a woman sat next to one of the men. The men were almost mirror images; when one waved the other did as well, but with a laugh; when one said hello the other would say hello as well, but deeper. This practice would continue on for hours. Every time the men would converse, though, the room would grow darker, and shrink. As the room shrank, the three people would have to move their seats closer and closer until they were so cramped that their noses could be touching as if they were in a New York subway at rush hour. As this continued the woman grew sadder as there was nobody mirroring her images; she had to watch the two men converse. Anytime she wanted to speak, she would have to talk to the man next to her; but this didn't please her. The conversation felt empty. There was no connection. The more she had to sit and endure this, the more uneasy she became. Eventually, she became so unhappy from the growing mass of worried thoughts that the room’s light switched off. After a couple of minutes, the room abruptly illuminated with red light. The woman was now missing. She had left in search of a more comforting room, and the man sat abandoned; realizing that he, too, was alone and depressed. The man across from him no longer laughed. He stared back into his eyes for what felt like hours- trying to find out why they're in this room. He tried to fix the lighting, to open up the room, to mend the emptiness. He searched through every dusty corridor of his brain; but found nothing. The man now waits aimlessly as he lays his head down. He will not close his eyes because he knows once he does, the room will turn off; and not turn back on.
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Moon Sanitation
Jan 27, 2019
In Blog Posts
February 2018 A couple sat silently in a restaurant. Other couples shot quick glances and murmured to their partners how first dates can be so awkward; asked why a white boy is dating a black girl or how can they afford a place like this; said, “I doubt they'll tip the waiter”. They were oblivious to the fact that these two had been dating for about two years now, and they didn’t worry when there was no topic to discuss, but sometimes preferred silence over a forced conversation. The boy looked at the wall: three paintings hung there, none of them lay straight. A moon, a man, and a pond. These pictures added to the ambience of the low orange lighting, along with the dark red cushions that lined the wall and the dark oak that made up the table. The girl stared at the boy’s hands. They were covered in small scars or discoloration. His nails had dirt underneath, and were ridged from the times he got bored and would chew on them aggressively. Neither of them, however, actually considered the things they appeared to be starting at. Maybe they would ponder the food that was absent from the table, would analyze a moment that happened 5 minutes ago, or would shuffle through the million other things flickering through their heads. When he noticed the silence, the boy would smirk and say "what you thinkin' bout?" And the girl would respond with, as always, "I don't know"; because to go through every single thing that had passed through her head just then would be too much to explain.
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Moon Sanitation
Jan 27, 2019
In Blog Posts
September 4th, 2018 I feel that in order to stop reminiscing about the past, you must embrace it. You must accept the shittiest moments as well as the best, and decide what moments have made you who you are today. You don't have to love it; you just can't hate it anymore. At five years old I fell to the ground. My knee was badly scraped. I rolled around on the pavement crying at the sensation of the momentary yet never ending burn. At six I heard my parents screaming. I heard a chair topple. I heard words like "pain", "doubt" , "divorce". I was unaware of the meaning of that event until i didnt my see daddy anymore; whether it was because he didn't put in enough effort to make me remember the moments he was there, or because he was getting high in the back room and my mother didn't allow me to see him. At seven I leaned on my sister. Unable still to grasp that I just wanted to hold onto what hadn’t yet changed in my life. I had her, and she wouldn't get rid of me. I would make sure nothing distanced us. At eight I was angry. Angry for what reason? Angry because I was eight, and had so little to remember except disappointment. Angry because I was eight, and eight year olds aren’t able to stay angry, right? Angry because nobody paid attention for more than five minutes. Angry because I was eight and not thirty. Angry because I didn’t have quite enough life experience to just shrug off my problems yet. At nine I had a secret. A secret because I was told so. A secret because it was my escape and my thrill. At ten it was a secret life. A life with freedoms. A life with misled purpose. At eleven it was a disease, a drug; a lifestyle that puts a haze across your eyes and a flame in your mind. A misconception of power and strength. At twelve I felt emptiness. An emptiness that scars. Is twelve finally old enough to be angry? Or finally old enough to be depressed? The difference between them was a thin line concealed by those who continuously told me that I had not seen enough to be a good judge of what i needed. I had to let them advise me as if they had my eyes. At thirteen was distance. Distancing from those that had hurt me, ironically, because i loved them. A constant scene that is repeated throughout anyone's life. It is a habit that is slowly formed, and I felt that the only way to resolve things was to step away. Because that was the only way to protect myself and them, right? A decision that a thirteen year old should not have to make. At fourteen there were two lives. A smile as a reaction to anything said, and a knife as reaction to anything read. At fifteen was work. No sleep. Maturing in the worst way, in the most unhealthy way; like a cub raised in a circus that is whipped every day to behave. And behave I did. At sixteen was numbness. It was blood, and makeup, and acting. It was when you walk until you have to kneel and pray someone makes you lay down. I wish I was five- where a bike accident was my never ending burn. Where my pain only ruined thirty minutes of my day. I can't find a better word to describe adults than accustomed humans. You become accustomed to certain pains that would be devastating to a little child. You become accustomed to beautiful views or to certain tastes in your mouth. I realize the truth in this sentiment so much more when I look back at my life. When I walk into the same house and it just isn't as big anymore; or I eat a dish I used to eat when I was 6 and it just doesn't taste as good anymore. I think that maturity is often confused with this at a young age. Is a 16 year old more mature than his best friend, or has he just been through more **** than is acceptable to say in a public setting? I am desensitized to so many things in my life now; and it takes the love of my friends and the love of my life to make me realize it. I don't think of it as an expression of internal calm or thoughtfulness, but actually as my brain trying to protect me from future damage. It's not maturity, it's security. I await the day where i process everything in a stable and calm manner not because I have to, but because it's natural.
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Moon Sanitation

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