There are Other Things besides Love.

existing in this strange and awkward in-between state.

Surely, surely Other Things we’ve heard of—

stronger, less fickle Things than Fate

      Forced into this mundanely middle state

      I am taught to be, to see

      Not Fate

      Only the realms of Science and Mathematics and History

I am learning to see, to be

Other Things, which plainly matter most

Science and Mathematics and History

Of which Love warrants no host

      Those Things that matter most

      Lie in money or a pretty face or both to be sure

      because of this Love necessitates no host

      Because of this Love needs no future

A heart is the cure

For wanting Other Things I know of

My life, my future

Where I’ll know Other Things besides Love.

Featured questions are for squares.

and I am the squariest square you'll ever have the pleasure to meet.
=]

My earliest memory dates back to about the age of four or five.

I kept having these weird recurring dreams about a little man with wings.

One cloudy, gray afternoon, I was walking home from school with my Yeye. He was slow, and unusually sluggish on that day. Upon approach of our driveway, he left my side to sweep the leaves off the ground. I wouldn't need his supervision from this point on. Alone, I walked past the front porch and I out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tiny humanoid object, lying on its back in the grass of the front lawn. The sky grew sunny.

I stared and stared. I came closer to the edge of the grass in order to get a better look. He was completely white, and bore an uncanny resemblance to that famous statue. The statue of David. Yes, that's what it was.

He looked exactly like a miniature statue of David, only with wings. And he was moving. He was breathing. Animated. Alive. He looked so peaceful. So nice. He was relaxing in the grass, his arms tucked behind his head, watching the clouds with his eyes. His ivory color greatly contrasted against the green of the grass he was laying on. It was strange, so strange.

I felt a mixture of disgust and attraction wash over me; I wanted to catch him, touch him, feel him, explore this curious new thing I'd never seen before.

So I walked right past the little fairy, fighting my curiosity and desire to talk to him. I was too shy. And of course, I didn't want to be rude. Despite myself, I could not help but to stare hard at him, privately wondering what in the world he could be; where did he come from; whether he talked or not.

As I made my way past him, I attempted to be quiet, tiptoeing across the leaves littering the gravel walkway. He was nonetheless disturbed by my clumsy feet. He promptly propped his body up on his smooth, curved elbows and surveyed the ground around him, looking for the source of the noise. He spotted me, and flashed a most dazzling smile in my direction. He flitted up into the air, his wings a graceful white blur. And followed me. He was one of the most beautiful, enchanting things I had ever seen. Out of curiosity, I let him come.

I walked up to the creaky, wooden gate to let myself in. As I unlatched the metal lock, I carefully avoided touching the wood for fear of splinters. He flitted around me. I felt him touch my hair, come in close contact with my shoulders. The small man was coming too close. Much too close for comfort. It was making me uncomfortable and alarmed. I don't know why, but I had the feeling that he was charmed by me more than I was him.

I threw open the old wooden door in one motion, and broke into a run to get away, speeding towards my front door. My father came out, looking surprised to see me so panicked.

I told him the little man was scaring me. I turned to point him out, but he wasn't in the air anymore. He was on the ground nearby, stiff and unmoving. I was crying. He didn't look so human anymore. I begged my dad to put him in an empty glass bottle that someone had discarded nearby. Though my dad was confused by what I asked, he moved to do so. Midway through shoving him in, the little man suddenly came to life in my father's hands, and began thrashing against his efforts.

They both were locked in an intense struggle. Once my bewildered father had him inside, he became still again. I got the sudden feeling that the little fairy creature was greatly saddened by my rejection.

I looked at him. He looked so perfect, so still behind the reflective green glass. His skin no longer held a flawless, white quality. It had become murky colored and sickly looking.    

Before I could stop him, my father took the bottle with the (now deathly still) man inside, and smashed it against the concrete. Glass flew everywhere, into a million sharp, crooked pieces. It was in my hair, on my dress, on the floor. I was too afraid to move around. I didn't want to step on a piece and hurt myself. I remember feeling so devastated that he was gone, lost to me forever.

It was odd, really.

something old,

something new.

something borrowed,

something blue.

I love traditions.