5/8/16


    My old Volkswagen rumbled to a stop on the eerily quiet farm road outside of the small town in upstate NY. This area was always really creepy, but the farmer died a few years ago, and nobody has really used this land for anything much since, so it was safe. My friends and I have been coming here for a while, it''s our smoke spot. Far enough from Geneseo for the cops and sheriffs to not actually bother patrolling much. We would spend hours here laughing our asses off and telling stories while the weed made its way through every neuron of our minds, and the smoke filtered through our lungs. That''s not really why I''m here now, though.


    I shift the car into park and turn the lights off, the sheer darkness takes over. It''s 3am, the witching hour. Places like these really make you understand why we gave the hour such a moniker. The darkness, the seclusion, the cacophony of crickets, the trees groaning in the wind, the overwhelming stars, it''s quite primal. I take a deep breath and take a few more final hits of my joint. I''m fucking zooted. Weed, Adderall, wine, caffeine, and plenty of nicotine were tonight''s cocktail, the usual suspects when studying all night for an exam. I finished studying and snuck out here while my roommates were asleep. This place always gives me the tranquility I need to knock out.


    As I take a deep breath and open the door I''m once again confronted by the sheer emptiness of the place, I''m alone, really fucking alone. Finally. I take out my flashlight and shine it into the woods. The beam roams across various patches of trees and underbrush, and gangs of crickets stop and start their chatter until I finally spot my trail. I cautiously start walking, heels clicking on the rough gravel road.


    I shouldn''t be out here, especially now, especially not dressed like this. These heels are terrible to walk in, this dress is catching on the underbrush every other minute, this wig is just bad, but something about it feels right. As if the farther I walk and the more I put myself in dangerous situations, the more free I am. I feel like myself. Here, among the silent old growth and god only knows what else, dressed in bad drag, I feel right. That''s certainly not normal behavior. But I wasn''t a normal child, and I''m not a normal teenager, I''ve always had these urges. Thankfully, nobody knows.


    The clearing always sneaks up on me, one minute you''re awkwardly trudging through underbrush and trying not to snap your ankles like a racehorse, the next minute you''re on flat land, and the sky is beckoning. I make my way to the center, and let my body collapse among the tall grass. The sky. The fucking sky is overwhelming, there''s simply no other word for it. The stars feel three-dimensional, I mean, they are, but it''s easy to forget that sometimes. Not here. I feel as if I''m among the stars, as if I can reach out and touch Sirius, as if, if I simply wait for Betelgeuse to supernova, I can take my place on Orion''s shoulder. It''s absolutely terrifying and wonderful at the same time. This is why I come here, this is why I put myself in danger, I can finally feel something. I feel quite a lot to be honest, alone in this clearing, I let my emotions free and give into the existential fear and euphoria.


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    The tears came over me hot and fast, I was suddenly dizzy with feeling, they weren''t the cute quiet sobs upon the visage of an adorable baby, they were sudden and violent. Years. Years. I prayed for fucking years to a god even my childhood self knew wasn''t real, on the vague hope that maybe something would change the next morning, the hope that I would wake up and look down to see what I knew was right. It was for nothing. Once I gave up on the dead or nonexistent god, I gave up on myself and endeavored to shove that part of me into a box and lock her away forever. It worked, for a time. After a year or so, she began knocking on the lid of her coffin, and eventually broke out. I was 10, and I cried quietly alone for weeks before I mustered the courage or cowardice to lock her back in that box. She would break out again and again over the years, and I would lock her up again every time. I was too ashamed and afraid to truly confront her, so I just locked her up and made myself behave as I thought I should. Surely, everyone felt this way, right?


    Puberty came late, but with it came changes that distracted me or devastated me, depending on the day. I grew tall, handsome, and strong. I had plenty of friends, and women loved me, that helped occasionally. But she was still there, banging on the lid of her box, in the back of my mind. I could never truly kill her in a way that mattered. So I started to let her out occasionally, always alone, always in carefully controlled and supervised environments. That''s how I ended up here, crying in the woods at 4am in cheap drag. This has worked so far, but in the back of my head I know she''ll grow restless for more, she''ll want to see the world, the real world, and I''ll eventually become the one in the box. The uncertainty is terrifying, I love her and I know she''ll be great, but it won''t be easy for her. I''ll go into the box quietly and willingly, I''ll let her live when the time comes.