Perspective. A natural phenomenon taken into consideration every moment. Minute. Second. Everything must be thought with a sense of perspective. Perspective is a sense of egalitarianism, giving atypical communities a bridge of unity. When all individuals have varying perspective, more ideas are introduced, thus providing this bridge to all who listen and perceive. Perspective is individualism, something which defines one from another, a friend from a foe. It is a deceiving fellow, yet bona fide. It is an ant on a leaf of a stem of a branch of a trunk of a seed of a root system all planted in the ground. To the ant, we are merely giant monsters, destructing everything in our paths. We are all Godzillas, (most I hope without evil motives), trudging our bodies in a sluggish fashion towards our goals. The fact that humans are always aspiring, and so do not fit in with the rest of nature may surprise the ant, yet perplex it. The fact that we all have long-term goals will always fuel our lives, and give us a different agenda everyday to busy ourselves with. Yet, the ant is captivated in a small cage of the same agenda everyday, feeding itself and its peers. That is, in my perspective. Perspective is a varying fellow, willing to change depending on the situation. For every individual, perspective is different.

Perhaps, this entire universe is all based on the idea of perspective. That every organism will always have a point of view. But this system of perspective is a shape shifter, appearing good yet bad. To the ant on the leaf, a bird swooping down to eat her may seem bad, but it is actually good. When the bird consumes the nutritious ant, the bird will gain more energy to reproduce. This will contribute to the population of the birds, and furthermore provide food for other organisms, ranging widely, from fungi to lions. This system will continue, until stopped by forces stronger than itself. But who will this be?

Perhaps Godzilla?

I am loneliness, the emptiness of an unsuccessful social life, the tears that flow from the eyes of those who yearn for a companion. Paired with insecurity, lacking a true presence near me, I am cut by the bitter winds of isolation. Without the warm aura of a friend, seclusion reigns in my frozen heart. The hearth of hope is reduced to smoldering embers, while the walls of confidence break down under the brewing snowstorm. I change from a warm smile to a face contorted by crying, wailing, moaning for one true companion, a person who can break the walls and extricate me from desolation’s freezing grasp.

I am one-sided empathy, the helpless helper, attempting to connect with friends who have problems, be it social, physical, mental, or, dare I say, romantic. To understand them, to feel their pains, to experience their emotions is not merely a privilege, I feel, but an obligation, yet they seem oblivious to my silent pleas and subtle hints at my yearning for a true connection. I construct conduits to allow them to pump out their emotions and problems so I may deal with them, yet when I ask for them to return the favor, they are callous. And I try to hide my cries under false smiles and fake laughs, but my life continues to swirl around, crushed in a bleeding heap. Never have I the time to sort out these emotions, for I am still helping, helping even those with no care for me.

I want to be a guardian, a protector of people. I want to be the light in the lives of my peers, shining with a brightness that guides them in their paths. However, being a mere helper is not my only intention: to be accepted, to be wanted as a true friend is my desire.

Now, before I go into depth on the event, I think it’s important to address the circumstances in which it happened. Back in ‘51, I was around thirteen and lived with Ma, Pa, brother Joey and our hired help, Phil on our farm about two and a half miles off of Rock Mill in Randolph County, Alabama. The place as a whole was pleasant as far as farms go, with orderly fields, well-maintained hog pens and a very rustic looking red barn that had been on the property for what Pa says was near a hundred years. This sounds all fine, but there was this one place close to where our property line lays where the fields, pens, and shacks just stop. The area as whole was always a sinister one, housing a wood that consisted mostly of dead oaks, which in turn sheltered a mysterious dark crick that no one knew flowed where to or where from. Now, Pa liked to consider himself a woodsman, and claimed that there was no jungle or forest too dark or brambly to keep him out, but he never voluntarily stepped foot in that wood for as long as I knew him.

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