A friend of mine showed me this picture once, a picture of a girl. I've probably spoken two, maybe three words to her. I don't know anything about her. But this picture, you should have seen it. She was standing on a dock, leaning casually against a wooden post, weathered by rain and wind and teenagers who would press their backs to it in moments of passion and later, regret.
Behind her, a small speedboat sat anchored and impatient,
pompous and self-righteous against the rocks and the aged-green water.
She was looking right into the camera, with her body turned to the side;
Honest blonde hair draped her shoulders, frayed and dampened by the spray of the sea
and the salt in the Long Island air. She wore a fedora made of straw with a band covering the brim, a kaleidoscope of teals, cyans, white, and a splash of burgundy, and she had a bright shirt on; a blue that was as vivid and organic as the life beneath the ocean's surface. But it was all in her eyes, and in her smile; the shadow of her hat shielded her irises, so much so that it was impossible to distinguish their color, but the darkened lids spoke volumes, stories of rich drinks and richer friends, fires on the beach and problems that only cater to the wealthy. Her smile, on the other hand, was confident, but not cocky; it spoke of her longing for honesty, wonder, a genuine interest in people and the beauty that can only be found in the soil and crowded city sidewalks. There was something about her visage that challenged me, filled me with determination and yet forced me towards the brink of thoughts that plague all those who are silently searching for someone;
What if I never find that?
But her dignity was daring, and more than anything else, it showed me a simple truth:
She was stunning, and full of wisdom, but she was just a girl.
I think that's the biggest difference between men and women:
Some girls can cripple and rebuild you
With just a photograph by the water.
I dream too often. I'll take a skag couch over a slacked-out
image of a picket-and-cash house
But suburbia is where I belong, a half-spoiled pale-skin dying to smash out
But I'm just an In-Between.
Most of us have a chance,
But I'm frightened of the people around me.
I'm not sure whether I will soar or fizzle out,
But I know that time is winding down.
Neither literature nor science,
Neither water nor air
A pull from directions that signal to push.
Trapped between a drive to set fire
To the world or to my body
I will never be a father if I soak everything in gasoline.
Back and forth,
Indecisive and drained.
The act of searching every nook has left me tired and sore
I need to close my eyes and sleep.
I'll put the pieces back together when I wake,
I'm sure I'll find what I'm looking for tomorrow, if not today.
But I must make a decision soon, because the worst part about not making it out
Is that they don't write stories about In-Betweens.
Christian Huber is from Bedford, NH. He is a senior and majoring in psychology. His inspiration/how he likes to write his pieces involve taking ordinary or seemingly small/minor events and exaggerating them. He is really interested in putting a new spin on the events and objects that people sometimes take for granted. After he graduate, he'll be pursuing graduate school. His goal is to get a PhD in psychology and teach at the university level one day.