Toubib Or Not To Be

In a manner of speaking, I question the silence. A silence I erased in the hopes of understanding. But you say everything by saying nothing. In a manner of speaking, I crash the silence, my words like tidal waves come crashing in, crashing with them what's left unspoken, shattering the vows you whispered to the wind. In a manner of speaking, my words hunt the silence. The shadows are retreating, but I only fear silence. God is silent. The absence of God is my religion. In a manner of speaking, I listen. God is taking shape. I listen to the whistling in the dark, echoing the forbidding words, the enigma of nature, written in fractals, a quiet signature of God. In a manner of speaking, I pray. I shiver to the horrors of guilt, of confusion and illusion. I pray to the trees, for I am rooted. I pray to the sun, for I am burning. I pray to God, for God is within me. In a manner of speaking, I write to you. Words flowing to me, words filling my throat, words submerging my existence. The ...

Cursed is the neck that carries the silver medal. Before one is to proclaim that, well, the silver medalist is indeed a winner, one must pause…ponder. One must walk upon a metaphorical red carpet, wait behind the bronze medalist to climb that metaphorical podium, and waste away as every member of this accursed metaphorical arena announces you the first loser. I am not an athlete, nor am I ever inclined to be one. My physical prowess is limited to running after buses and away from the rain; however, I can proudly admit that I have been a silver medalist on many occasions in my life. As a matter of fact, so has every person I have ever met. In truth, we have all carried that mantle. So allow me to paint you a picture. You are ten when you are diagnosed: gifted. That’s what they call you, that’s what they are going to continuously whisper behind your back before you inevitably plummet, an Icarus who burned out too close to the overachieving sun. But I digress, you are gifted, and whether ...