Crooked

Copyright © 2019 Chris Foster. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   10/30/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3436-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3439-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017917037

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Meaning

Chapter 2   Unfortunate

Chapter 3   Support

Chapter 4   Emotion

Chapter 5   Time

Chapter 6   Balance

Chapter 7   Calm

Chapter 8   Dreams

Chapter 9   Communication

Chapter 10   Ideal

Chapter 11   Cycle

Chapter 12   Collective

Chapter 13   Expression

Chapter 14   Crazy

Chapter 15   Color

Chapter 16   Youth

Chapter 17   Death

Chapter 18   Curious

Chapter 19   Insanity

Chapter 20   Life

1

MEANING

S omewhere sometime someone said something which stole another’s mind and everything on it for a moment. He asks to hear it once more. He does more than think; he reevaluates. Even if he’s from a place where free speech could cost him his tongue, he has to talk to loved ones. Casual conversation gets mixed with deep introspection, and they too find treasure buried in time’s sand. They too must spread the words that were overlooked by the word of the Gods and the holy books. Soon the phrase flourishes. Soon enough, it’s exchanged among empires, right beside goods and services. If there’s no direct translation between languages, new words are made. It goes far. But it’s not just passed on; it’s also passed down. Children understand, for maturity isn’t required when the meaning is so simple. All that’s needed is a little bit of a beginner’s mind. After they’re grown, they too will pass on a heirloom belonging to Earth’s one great big family. Enough generations pass, and new life is greeted with ancient wisdom.

So what are these phrases? Depending on whose eyes you’re looking into, they may be proverbs or cliches. You may regard the people who are always repeating those phrases as annoying, like the bugs always buzzing near your ear, and you want to smack both of them. But might you be overlooking something? Human vision easily misses the microscopic universe thriving on the skin; why can’t the intellect fail to take a closer look? As an example, take the phrase Go with the flow! Do you understand what this means? Sure, the intellect grasps it after two seconds, but can you live it? Can you understand it beyond language? Another example: let’s say you’re handed complex sheet music for a piano, and you intellectually understand advanced math’s cousin at first glance. Yet, you’ve never played the instrument in your life. Do you truly understand what’s written on that paper? Can intellectual understanding substitute for actually playing? Will your mouth replace your hands at a piano concert? Does a couple hours of studying equal years of practice? In other words, can superficial comprehension take the place of deep embodiment?

Return to Go with the flow! What does this mean to someone who runs in with guns flexing and blazing, always wanting to put every piece it in its place with just two legs and two arms? Now on the other end: What does this mean to someone who has truly learned to empty her mind? What’s it mean if she accepts the events happening on the outside the same way she accepts the thoughts coming in on the inside? Now consider Don’t give up! What does this mean to someone who is up in the stratosphere with economic/social privilege and has been spoon-fed all his life? What does this mean to a destitute person who came from a place where kick-the-can was soccer, but still earned many scholarships and eventually obtained a PhD in neuroscience? One more time: Don’t wish your life away. What does this mean to a high-status, high-strung type A personality who always wishes for the day to be over immediately after he seizes it? What does this mean to the same man fifty years later when he’s the color of the sheets on his hospital bed, looking back on his life with everything to show for but nothing to live for? Time will tell the tale.

Indeed, if you have a story, you also have a deep understanding. Intellect can bring you from zero up to full speed in two seconds with a simple phrase, but its connotation can be grasped only through experience and time. When you take on something challenging, pick a phrase and repeat it to yourself; it’ll become a mantra that’s symbolic of continuous effort. Eventually, it’ll turn into a proverb, and you’ll be one of those annoying people who constantly repeats it! To put all this concisely,

cliche + connotation = proverb.

Simple as that.

The quote itself is only the first sentence in chapter one; the experience is the rest of the novel. The effort is mountains high, and the meaning is canyons deep. If you’re thinking of getting a foot out the door to your world and changing some things, understand that The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Such are words that have always been around; take them with you this time. Caution: if you’re not true to yourself, the truth will not come to you. You must have patience. Remember, there’s no such thing as read the magic words. The meaning will come to you in time.

Give a little each day, and you’ll know a little more each day. Soon you’ll inspire. Anyone can take your words with them anywhere. Someday they’ll have words of their own. In the streets, we’ll have storytellers instead of fortune tellers. But remember, what’s getting propagated isn’t anything new because this knowledge has always been around. People are just finally listening, hearing the ancients. Some travel the world, and they’ll use these simple sentences to describe their experiences. That’s all there really is. If you open your eyes and perk up your ears, you’ll understand that it’s all you really need. It’s the simple things in life, right?

2

UNFORTUNATE

I magine a poverty-stricken life with hardly any family, friends, or acquaintances for support. You’re alone and fighting to survive in an ecosystem of brick and concrete. At least you’re employed, but that only checks harbingers of bad news. With your little leisure time spent in bed-sweat anxiety, life feels painful and tasteless on minimum income. You’re expected to improve your education for privileged luxuries, but getting that degree lies in figurative currency and bottomless willpower. Others in similar situations already redefined practicality and now involve themselves in illegal activities. Such a notion seems heretical, and you promised yourself and others to never trail-blaze down there. However, how long are you willing to repetitively awaken for the same, exhausting day? Until you collapse or die? Are you accepting decades of life without quality? What would you be rebelling against, a free society or something like a crooked theocracy that imprisons dissenters? Feeling bitter and out of options, the grapevine guides you to those who’ll hopefully understand. Upon your whisper, they empathize, embrace you while you cry, and welcome you in. What starts as a sorrowful last choice becomes an addictive empowerment, taking advantage of your oppressor and feeling that control, longed for since childhood. You don’t accuse yourself of not having a sense of decency when nothing else made sense. But as your speed increases, risk increases, and you’re eventually apprehended. You witness your actions being presented to a jury of successful, upstanding citizens who live far from your situation. Pleads for understanding are taken as contempt since legal and psychological are often antonymous. Then you’re imprisoned.

After that much-needed lesson, you’re released back into the wild with a red tag. Now finding legitimate work is like hoping to write the all-American novel, but if you do… Imagine a poverty-stricken life with hardly any family, friends, or acquaintances for support. You’re alone and fighting to survive in an ecosystem of brick and concrete. At least you’re employed, but that only checks harbingers of bad news. With your little leisure time spent in bed-sweat anxiety, life feels painful and tasteless on minimum income. You’re expected to improve your education for privileged luxuries, but getting that degree lies in figurative currency and bottomless willpower. Others in similar situations already redefined practicality and now involve themselves in illegal activities. Such a notion seems heretical, and you promised yourself and others to never trail-blaze down there. However, how long are you willing to repetitively awaken for the same, exhausting day? Until you collapse or die? Are you accepting decades of life without quality? What would you be rebelling against, a free society or something like a crooked theocracy that imprisons dissenters? Feeling bitter and out of options, the grapevine guides you to those who’ll hopefully understand. Upon your whisper, they empathize, embrace you while you cry, and welcome you in. What starts as a sorrowful last choice becomes an addictive empowerment, taking advantage of your oppressor and feeling that control, longed for since childhood. You don’t accuse yourself of not having a sense of decency when nothing else made sense. But as your speed increases, risk increases, and you’re eventually apprehended. You witness your actions being presented to a jury of successful, upstanding citizens who live far from your situation. Pleads for understanding are taken as contempt since legal and psychological are often antonymous. Then you’re imprisoned.

So here we are, spending all our effort on retaliating and incapacitating instead of understanding and rehabilitating. We don’t ask questions: What if someone sincerely tried everything sensible to break the cycle without success? What if the land of opportunity only saved him from being called lazy when he’s still begging? What if he takes his number in line and puts it on the back of his clothes in a cell? What if the end of his sentence is the start of another when he’s thrown into his past without assistance? Is his situation fixed? Or has he shape-shifted into a livid, vengeful creature who is now what society originally thought he was? Is his life cyclic capture and release, eighty years void of happiness?

Underlying problems publish a single story with thousands and thousands of editions. Such protagonists unite through addresses of anger and sermons of sorrow, and they march. Then follows a pushback where police militarize and media sensationalize. Weaponry is drawn, fueling corded necks and canine teeth. One side is struggling to survive; the other is protecting itself. Is there any possible conversation? The only hand that’s extended is the one that checks for a pulse.

A plight worsens to blight if only symptoms are managed. Civilization battles not ghastly criminals but desperate laborers. When the latter’s stripped beyond clothing with a name of shame, what’s to be expected? Alternatively, finding and fixing the root lowers skyward screams and raises earthward echoes. An unfortunate individual is then a pleading someone to be nourished instead of a wicked something to be restrained. His yearning for a warm place and safe surroundings are simply given or cultivated. There are those who’ll create confusion and unnecessary difficulty by citing this fact or presenting that figure, justifying why they can’t help. In actuality, genuine kindness is without complex mathematical analysis and theory, only limited by one’s willpower and well-being. But who’ll acknowledge not needing dozens of life jackets for keeping oneself afloat, tossing a few to help others? Who’ll take gesturing hands at table talk and extend them? Chance is one letter off from change.

3

SUPPORT

E ven among the illuminating, positive people, depression may secretly torment them. Such people are extraordinary, but they struggle with the ordinary. What was mind and muscle through one activity after another is replaced by the bedridden stare at a wall. In terms of emotions, occasional contemplation becomes daily rumination. But others only see these people smiling, not noticing the lack of flexing on their cheeks. They fear another’s head going from side to side more than their own heads being bent over. In actuality, pressure is pushing outward from the inside, not downward from the outside. Most would worryingly ask, What’s wrong? should their dials approach the red threshold and cause tears to ooze out. But depression distorts inner vision, making this difficult to see even with all that willpower. It’s I’m okay. every time while everything multiplies everywhere with everyone. A third person viewer, like someone watching poignant television, would shout words these people couldn’t hear, hoping that frail flood gate finally breaks in front of someone. The viewer would hate to see loved ones mourning, frantically turning over every stone except the tombstone, pleading why to the sky, and hoping for an unromanticized note from above. A lack of closure turns into a cold case.

Slicker than any crooked salesman, depression convinces you that out of several billion, not one understands. You catch someone smiling and laughing with friends on the grass, thinking her entire life is high points defined without low points. You ask yourself, Why can’t I have that? But this event is possibly beyond ‘what’s every day’ to her, an unusual occurrence of gentle, genuine happiness in her otherwise overwhelming life. Good feelings may shine light on her day, but depression will return as it’s much more powerful than a few happy hours. Reversing perspective, she might sight you in some recreation that’s beyond ‘what’s every day’ to you and ask the same question: Why can’t I have that?

You understand that time with friends is to depression as an antibiotic is to a deadly infection, but taking initiative becomes conquering your largest fear every time. Every minor lack of communication becomes someone’s lack of concern, insinuating that they have no time for you. You’re everybody’s weird but nobody’s ‘my weird.’ You have too much time alone with your wise inside voices, sucking up their assertion you’re only a bother, not thought about otherwise. You’re squirming on the hard floor like someone reacting to light pouring through a windowless room’s doorway where you were locked in the dark for days. Forearms cover your face as the voices encircle you and chant their cult insults. But the real you, sounding close by but seemingly coming from elsewhere,