Author: Tyler Davis

My fingers softly run over the smooth keys of my keyboard. I don’t add pressure. I don’t type. I have nothing to say. There are no words. There is nothing- nothing but tears. My tears fall from my eyelashes and find solace in landing messily on my keyboard. I have nothing to say. No reason for the tears. No reason for the sobs tearing at my throat. No reason for my fingers to be shaking. Maybe I will give birth to them. Maybe I should allow them to pierce the surrounding silence. Maybe if I let them out they will explain why I hurt. Why I feel such a solemn pain? Or maybe if I let them out I will be left with more questions. Who am I crying for? Who has left me in such a state? My heart beats at a pace I find uncomfortable. My jaw clenches and grinds my teeth together. The pressure causing my head to throb. I focus on the pressure. It is better than focusing on the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. Better than focusing on the problem. Better than trying to fix it. Can you fix a broken heart? Is that possible? Do we sew the pieces back together? Maybe my doctor will recommend surgery. Maybe my doctor will inform me that I have days or better yet hours before my imminent death. Maybe he will tell me that there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe he will admit me into Whitfield. Maybe I will be locked into a padded room. Maybe I will be prescribed a list of medications to help with this pain. But who knows? I am tired of the maybes and the pains and the uncomfortable pace my heart keeps beating. I am so tired. And I want to tell you that I am tired. But every time I go to open my mouth, I have nothing to say.

My name is silence,

Lost in the words you cared not to remember,

It is not a bad thing to forget,

Just remember my words,

Let my words soothe your heart,

Let them boil blood and start riots,

Let my words bring tears to the eyes of the heartless,

Let them crash into the wall of the close minded like wrecking balls into building,

My words are to be heard like the battle-cries of victorious armies,

They are not to collect dust on bookshelves left untended and forgotten,

I care not if my name is written in the history books we give our children,

But let my words take hold in your mind,

Let them feed off your emotions,

Give them a meaning only you can understand,

For these words are no longer mine,

They are yours

What Is Love?

My phone’s sound is always on. Always set on the loudest setting. I want to make sure I don’t miss your call. I want to respond to your text fast enough that you don’t think I’m too busy for you. I am never too busy for you.

What Is Love?

My hand never seems to be still. Always shaking. Always trying to become comfortable in my lap or on my desk. Clasped with your hand, fingers interlaced.  I have never been more comfortable.

What Is Love?

I used to stutter. Words clogged my mouth like a child’s toy in the toilet. Words never belonged to me. But never did I stutter when I said those words. They didn’t belong to me either. They belonged to you.

What Is Love?

My mind is cradled in a manger. It floats high above the clouds. Often, I am told being so far from reality- from the truth of the world- will get me killed. I now know what they meant.

What Is Love?

You were never one for flying. You loved the ground too much- loved reality too much. But you loved the way I flew. Loved the way I refused to stay grounded for long. We thought we could make it. Me, the idealist, and You, the realist.

We Were Wrong.

About twelve years ago, my Aunt Jill introduced Tanner, my cousin and her only son at the time, and I to the wizarding world of Harry Potter. Being only four verging on five, the idea of wizards and witches was one I happily accepted. My cousin being younger then myself didn’t quite grasp the concept. And as per usual, we claimed house Gryffindor as our own.

However, as time progressed Tanner came to understand the movies and he truly claimed the stereotypical house of Gryffindor. I however, after seeing the third movie, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of  Azkaban, I knew Gryffindor was not the house for me.

Now this might sound quite silly, the idea that one could possibly claim a mythical house from a mythical school of wizardry in which there is a man who seeks to destroy all the good mythical people. But you must know that for the nerdy people, this is normal.

But back to what I was saying, I relinquished all claims to the house of Gryffindor and laid claim to House Slytherin.

So when my family went to Universal Studios in Orlando, the Wizarding World of Harry Potter was our first stop. I, of course, collected as much Slytherin Merchandise as  our budget allowed.

Then my friend informed me of the Pottermore test that is supposed to categorize you into a house based on your answers. I immediately created account and took the test.

My results thankfully came out as Slytherin.

“Or perhaps in Slytherin,
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means,
To achieve their ends.”

–The Sorting Hat, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

Recently, I became all too aware of a groundless fear of mine. A fear of writing. Now this is probably the most ridiculous fear of mine. My irrational fear of a shark attacking me in my shower probably makes more sense than this to be quite honest.

I am a literary student. I was accepted into an Art school primarily for my writing. But as the months progress and the work intensifies, I begin to fear what words may come to me as I sit at my desk. I fear the overwhelming emotions that  overtake me as I place my innermost thoughts onto paper.

I fear the criticism I will ultimately receive. I fear the expectations. I fear putting my work out into the world for I do not know how the world will respond. Will people applaud my writing or will they tear it to shreds? Will I be recognized for my work or will i be pushed aside?

I lay awake at all times of the night thinking of how my poems can contain as much emotion as possible. I dream of nothing but pens on paper and fingertips on a keyboard.

I only hope that the world will give my writing a chance.

I live in a bubble. Around  me, I can see others living their life to the fullest. They jump off cliffs and swim with sharks. They try new recipes and go out of dates with no intention of seeing this person again. They drive 20 miles over the speed limit and buy lottery tickets.

But my bubble keeps me safe.

I don’t walk at night. I don’t swim in pools or the ocean. I make sure to always wear shoes. I don’t try new foods. I don’t drive. I don’t gamble.

My bubble has insured my safety for the past sixteen years of my life.

But something has changed.

I long for plane rides to distance lands. I drive down dirt roads at 80 miles per hour. I buy several five dollar scratch off lottery tickets. I eat at new restaurants every week. I have now swam with fish of every kind.

My bubble has burst and now my life is a roller coaster.

With every coin flip, my life changes and a new experience has been set before me. My eyes are open to the world before me.

Often, my bubble tries to ensnare me again. But I will not go back to a life of boredom and fear. I have found myself in the feel of the sand under my toes and the wind in my hair.

My comfort zones have expanded and I do not fear the world around me.