A Brief Explanation & Then Some Pretentious Free Verse

Yeah, that first blog site totally crashed, and I don't even feel like dealing with it, so we're going to live and learn and move on.

So here we are again. You waiting for me to say something that makes a visit to this site justifiable and not a waste of time. I'm not making any guarantees, alright? You get what you want to get out of this whole thing. Just keep that in mind.

I suppose I should address the title, those four words up there at the top, hovering ambiguously.

Sometimes Coffee, Sometimes Tea.

Well, I could say I came up with those on my own, but then I'd be a boldfaced liar. Those words in this context were suggested by none other than Andrew Reed, whom some would call my boyfriend. (I prefer the more gender-neutral term, soulmate, because 'boyfriend' feels cheap compared to how much I love him.) I heard it, I liked it, I adopted it instantaneously. But how to explain it? It had to have weight, purpose, a hidden meaning. Truthfully, it's a simple statement relative to life's unpredictability and how one must adapt and choose to accept the moment for what it is, and what it calls for: sometimes coffee, sometimes tea. If you are confounded or intrigued by what I've just said, simply find the little box to the right labeled "Why Sometimes Coffee, Sometimes Tea?" and read away to your heart's content.

On the more pressing matter of what exactly this post is about, I don't really have a satisfying answer. I wanted to write something fresh and inspiring to leave whoever reads this considering more deeply their one chance at existence in the world, but writer's block is too real at the moment.

Due to this unfortunate fact, I've decided to instead delve into my archive of existentialist pieces and pull out this little thing. It's been on my Wattpad account for several months, but I figure it's good enough to serve as a placeholder where a witty, anecdotal introduction would usually be. It may be a bit pretentious, but know that I mean well and am aiming only to encourage the broadening of perspective.

Two Kinds of Height: A Blurb Concerning Bodies and Souls

I wish I was stronger.

I wish I was taller.

I wish wishes weren't just ways for me to excuse my own lack in motivation to set off a chain reaction of change in my life. These words spill like poetry, but they're far from the flighty, diaphanous phrases with which that term has become synonymous.

I will be stronger.

My strength will make me taller.

Not physically, of course, but there's another kind of height to be measured. The height of your soul can expand far beyond your body.

In fact, it should.

The better I feel, the more I radiate confidence, spew kindred lines and keep faithful to my promises, the more worth I give myself in my own eyes, the more that balloon of spirit inside me will inflate, and others will begin to debate whether they are considered tall in the tallness that matters.

While abstaining from confrontation may be my default action in the face of any altercation or inconvenient conflict, may be second nature to those of mellow composition, may seem to just be easier, there are times when my soul must speak, the words that I'm always forming in my head must make their way out and cascade into the ears of all those who need to hear it.

My voice is supposed to be heard; in fact, it's practically mandatory. My soul can't be tamed, though caged in my physical being, it's a living thing, it's me.

I am a soul, I have a body.

I can no longer let the weight of my own lips stop me from saying what I want to say. It may not even be what needs to be said, they may not be words that specifically lay claim to be heard, but any person with any respect for themselves deserves to relay what their soul is telling them.

I must shatter the glass of my insecurities that bars me from living, separates me from them, like I'm trapped on the wrong side of the zoo enclosure, in here with the lions I've created for myself. Every downgrading word I've ever told myself, even in my own head, mingles with outward threats to my comfort and niggling, off-hand comments that struck like arrows and have become the pacing carnivores with which I'm caught in close quarters. I pound on the thick glass, but everyone passes by, wound up in their own issues, perhaps trapped with their own demons in the glass boxes in their own heads.

I must help myself. I am my own hero.

I no longer bend over backwards to avoid sharing my opinion. I make my own decisions before others take the wheel from me and drive it in their own desired direction.

I am my own person. I am a soul. I am strong-minded. I am tall in spirit.

I speak what I mean, and I mean business.

This is my life, I must seize it, not patiently wait for it to play itself out like a movie reeled by how I react instead of how I act.

I am done watching from the sidelines. I put on a jersey and get in the game. I am my own coach, and I play all the positions.

This is my life. If you want to stick around, you'd better get with it.

I won't be docile, or weak-kneed, or mild.

I will be remembered for things much, much different.

Just don't take me wrong, I don't mean to say there's no place for peace or amicability. I love having friends, I love enjoying their company. I don't want to pick fights, or hate the whole of humanity. I'm not encouraging purposeless chaos, I merely want you to know:

the body never considers the boundlessness of the soul.

What I mean to say is you're taller than what you may seem.