Over the last few nights I have taken notice to a no-face hooded shade who has found comfort on the perimeter of my home. Peering through the windows during the darkest of hours, patiently awaiting an invitation near the creaky gate where my mother grows her flowers. Whispering dreams into the dark wind occasionally floating passed my ears, just out of reach, like scientists who create masks to mask age, but haven’t yet discovered a way to return to the previous page. This conjured human shape to some, may counter the anxiety that rises with such an encounter, but to me is fake. Those robes gracefully tickled by the Moon’s breeze reek of everything I need to hear— the scent of shattered thoughts that have become meaningless like the words of a chatter box— and for this reason I keep my door locked and ears sandwiched between two pillows. I’ve been praying for the truth, but from what I hear its startling like Mother Willow. Despite the years this shade has travelled to arrive at my door front, the Truth has found me to be an unwelcoming host like most who are conscious to prevent the downfall of the towers in our minds built with prejudice and cabinets filled with memories of the times when we pretended to be blind despite witnessing the crimes that our leaders commit at the drop of a dime; the spin of a quarter. The Truth will set me free like its robes in the air or the French revolutionaries after ousting Robespierre. Its hook is latched onto my soul and my only options are to follow its path or let go; to either unlock my door and open the wooden gate of pretend that I’m not home and miss my appointment with fate.

Too often Life’s choices are too great.