nickolisantiago - Tumblr blog

[nickolisantiago]

First Person Shooters

What we can’t do now is ban the consoles. Let’s just say that first.

Leave it to another white male, caught up in his privilege and comfort, to gun down others in an act of vile hate that leaves others dead. It’s a Sunday night as I type this, and at least 2 people (3 if you count the shooter) are dead as a result of a gunman firing rounds into the chests of gamers at a Florida riverfront gaming tournament. Friends and supporters gathered around to watch others play Madden, yet fearfully fled for their lives as a live Twitch stream recorded the event and the screams. If you haven’t heard the news, take a look at what The New York Times had to say.

I already know how this is going to go. “This wouldn’t have happened if the guy wasn’t motivated by the remote he held a mere few minutes before. The games create the rage. We know that people who play games are more likely to become shooters.” Etc. Etc. Etc. 

It’s all bullshit.

I’m going to catch this one early, for the conservatives who decide to use this as a symbolic rallying cry against gamers in an effort to take the blame away from their NRA-stocked pocketbooks. This violence is not CAUSED by video games. Rather, the violence is a reflection of someone who happened to BE a gamer but suffered from a gun-obsessed culture that values weaponry and “rights to bearing arms” over the right to live. 

Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong, and watch as an army from of the court of popular opinion shoves your own insanity down your throat. I’ll wait.

Or better yet, I won’t. Because I want you to see how wrong you are for thinking this event can be spun into tomorrow’s attack on video game culture. 

Let’s take a quick trip down memory lane, from an article brought to us by the writers over at “Futurism.” Quoted:

The consensus is that aggressive or violent behavior tends to result from the accumulation of various risk factors. Violent media can contribute to those risk factors, but to claim that they are the root cause of behaviors like mass shootings is a major oversimplification. And there is still no evidence that violent video games cause children to purchase AR-15 assault rifles and shoot up their former high schools like it’s “Call of Duty” brought to life.

The irony, of course, of reviving the “violent video games precipitate violent behavior” debate, is that Congress actually doesn’t allow the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) from studying gun violence as a public health issue. Under what’s known as the “Dickey Amendment,” passed 22 years ago, the CDC can’t fund gun-related research or use money to “advocate or promote gun control.” 

Yes. You read that right. While the video game industry - and gamers as a whole - continue to come under fire for the actions of others, the CDC is prevented from doing effective research on the subject of gun violence.

So to all you gun-loving hypocrites that continue to say “this is more of a mental health issue than a gun issue,” I urge you to grow the fuck up and call your Congressman. Tell them the Dickey Amendment is a load of bull.

Because if you TRULY believe that mental health is the cause for gun violence, and not the copious amount of unmarked guns sold and distributed at an alarming and uncontrolled rate, then you should have no problem with the Center for Disease control studying gun violence as it pertains to public health.

Do me a favor. If you’re ready to stop this bullshit head-on, share this with your friends and fellow gamers. Tell them you won’t take the blame for the Republicans and conservatives who will (with no shame) use the gaming industry and its members as a scapegoat for violent crime. They’ll tell you you can’t blame the gun for the shooting, but they’ll tell you your Xbox caused all of this.

If this truly is a health concern, let us research it. And if it’s not, let’s start regulating weapons better. Needless to say, asshats like this gunman should be brought to justice. And the Congressmen who allow their crimes to continue - by not checking the powers of gun enthusiasts and not allowing the CDC to conduct proper research - should be put in check.

[nickolisantiago]

What Star Wars Means to a Child of Divorce

Divorce sucks, but I really think that Star Wars has helped me cope a lot with having a hole in my heart where my father should have been for most of my life. If you’ve seen the films, you know that the entire saga centers on the story of Anakin Skywalker; he’s a hero-gone-villain who, despite being suited for a successful life of power and renown, turns into his own worst nightmare, ruining his love life and destroying the community which raised him.

A little background on myself. I’m a 22-year-old college graduate who still suffers from lingering anxiety and flashbacks to a time when my dad lost himself to pain medications and being bipolar. At no fault of his own, my father lost his dad in a car accident before I was born. That internal struggle, combined with the physical demands of being an electrician, led to back pain and intolerable suffering.

His way of coping? Vicodin. My father wasn’t the same after the pain consumed him. He wasn’t strong enough to battle his inner demons.

“I wasn’t strong enough to save you mom. I wasn’t strong enough, but I promise I won’t fail again.”

My father needed surgery, on top of everything else going on. His health was poor, and he overexerted himself while working long shifts for a power company here in Houston.

But before an extensive operation on his back could take place, he had to kick his addiction. And he did. He says I helped him. A four-year-old reflection asked my father, “When will you stop taking medicine?”

He claims it changed him, that my question and his doctor got him off the meds.

“Search your feelings, father. You can’t do this.”

Back surgery is apparently very dangerous. My father says he nearly died. Whether or not that bit is true, I may never know. But I do remember the plastic shell he wore following the operation. I remember the bed that lifted him up and positioned himself upright, and allowed him to don the brace that led him into a new world, one which consisted of more pain meds. More addiction. Metal screws and staples near his spine.

“He’s more machine now than man, twisted and evil.”

His mom died from cancer a few years later. With little left in way of guidance, he lost himself to the despair of loneliness. And he gave in again, to addiction and to hate for everything around him. 

This time, he took my mother and my siblings with him. We ventured into the dark cave of Dagobah, armed with nothing but our hearts. He lost his job, but he also lost his mind.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, you will be.”

There were bad nights. My younger siblings hid, while my older sister calmed my mom down, and defended her during fights. I stuck with my father. I tried to calm him down. I just didn’t believe he was beyond saving.

“I feel the conflict within you.”

My father was blinded by his hate for a life that screwed him over. He called me spineless and questioned why I was born. He tore away the hand I reached out to him with, severed it and replaced it with something cold. Metallic. Even in my youth, I started to become like him, starting with that hand.

“Use your aggressive feelings, boy! Let the hate flow through you.”

My father’s back was held together with a brace, staples and screws. He wasn’t the same, but I became swayed by his emotional manipulation. I followed him everywhere, fearing he would leave home and never return.

“I have you now.”

And perhaps he did. For a moment, I was a scared child. Eventually he left the house, on legal terms. The story was left unfinished, the pain a lingering illness. I wasn’t just a child though. I had been twisted into believing he had a right to treat my mother the way he did.

I finally muscled up the courage to see through his tangled web. It took me a long time, but one day, I finally broke his spell. He called me one night, and when he finally rambled on enough about excuses for never being around...for failing as a father...I unloaded.

“Only your hatred can destroy me.”

I chewed him out over the phone...I didn’t hold back. Years and years of pain spilled onto him, and I felt...bad. I hated him in that moment. I was furious for the childhood he stole from me.

“You cannot hide forever, Luke.”

I thought yelling at him would make me feel better. Yet, I had to stop myself and think. What was this doing? Was I doing any better than he was? I was becoming like him...letting loss steal my soul. My metallic hand was becoming more than just a death sentence. It was hurting my father and breaking my character apart.

“No...I am a Jedi, like my father before me.”

I decided I wouldn’t become the metal man. I wouldn’t be the dad who wasn’t around. I wanted to be like my real father, the man who I never knew. The one who was around when my grandpa was alive. The one that swept my mom off her feet and raised a stable household. I wanted to fix him, and help him.

“I’ve got to save you.”

I talk to my father on the phone about once every few months. He texts me a Bible verse every morning. It isn’t much. And I really feel like I should follow up with him and save him from the bits of a broken past that still affect us all. Yet, when I think back to how a four year old sparked a fire in his heart, and caused him to look deeper into himself in an era of turmoil, I imagine I am Luke Skywalker. Perhaps I can still save our relationship.

“You already have, Luke.”

Funny enough, his nickname has changed for me overtime. Kylie. Choo-Choo Man. Cowboy.

More recently, Jedi.  

[nickolisantiago]

[nickolisantiago]

Dear customer,

Thank you for buying the limited edition Shitbox 2000, complete with cupholders and expired tags. Let’s walk you through the troubleshooting process for turning off your engine light. 

Step 1: Replace the PCV valve. 

-Substep B: Figure out what the hell a PCV valve is. Install valve

Step 2: Crack the valve connector and scream loudly. Go back to Autozone and purchase several parts you don’t need, and install a different sized valve. 

Step 3: Remove battery. Watch as engine light turns off. Return to life as normal.

Step 4: Admit that nothing is really normal. Receive two job application rejections, drive home from school.

Step 5: Do your best to avoid petty drama. Get involved in petty drama because you’re not in the damn mood today. Watch as engine light turns back on. Immediately regret everything.

Step 6: Find someone in town who knows about cars. Consider driving to the other side of town to meet up with him. Realize that you don’t have time to meet with him. Hate yourself.

Step 7: Sacrifice your weekend for some volunteer event at school. Get free food. Spend your afternoon hunting for a place that will turn the engine light off and inspect the car illegally. Fail to find this place.

Step 8: Remind yourself that good things come to people who wait. Remind yourself that the last sentence was a lie. Remind yourself that you’re poor because you just haven’t worked hard enough, not because you inherited a broken family from a deadbeat dad.

Step 9: Go to work and go to class. Apply for more jobs.

Step 10: Go to a career fair. Speak with recruiters who have preconceived notions about you not being good enough. Provide resumes to recruiters despite knowing they will end up in the nearest trash can.

Step 11: Poetically hand one recruiter a resume in paper airplane form. Tell them you’d rather make it into the trash can with flying colors.

Step 12: Return to Autozone just before closing time. Ask them for a quick engine light scan. Be denied service. Be chastised for arriving late at night. Be told to visit another store. 

Step 13: Leave Autozone. Purchase flowers for mom’s birthday. Feel content. 

-Substep B: Admit that was a lie. Yell a little. Call Autozone. Curse at them and hang up.

-Substep C: Feel slightly better. Drive home. Place flowers on table. Wait for mom to arrive. Hug mom.

Step 14: Apply for graduation. Cross my fingers and toes that I’ve jumped through all the necessary hoops.

-Substep B: Deny the voice in my head that tells me my degrees are worth shit. 

-Substep C: Listen to others tell me that my degree is worth shit.

-Substep D: Deny them all defiantly. Graduate with my communications degree and begin my first entry level nonprofit job.

Step 15: Begin saving up for new car. Save up for new apartment. Help mom move to a new place. Get phone call from dad telling me he’s proud to see me graduate and start my adult life. 

-Substep B: Remember that he was never really there to see it happen.

Step 16: Get pulled over. Get fined for expired registration tags. Give up on engine light. 

Step 17: Drive car to nearest used car lot. Remove keys from ignition. Watch as engine light fades out.

Step 18: Purchase new car. Well, a newer car. 

Step 19: Drive new car home. 

Step 20: Repeat until light remains off.

If you’ve followed these steps correctly, your problem should be resolved. Should you have any future problems with the engine light, please consult the user manual before contacting the manufacturer. Please remember that all purchases are final and that this is just the way it is. 

Thank you for choosing Autozone.

[nickolisantiago]

Last One Out

Last one out, turn off the lights. Let the shadows creep in.

Let the voices of old friends echo on for eons in the ears of those passing by,

But let those memories of missing many people fall to the wayside.

Last one out, lock the door please. Make sure nothing else ever gets in

Make sure nothing erases the way you felt when you sat on that bed and kissed her goodnight.

Make sure nobody else can touch the image of you laughing with your roommates at 3 a.m. with a box of Taco Bell playing poker in that very room.

Last one out, wipe down the mirror, if you can. Clean it of the residue you see staring back.

Get that creep out of my face and replace it with the freshman who used to be there looking deep into my eyes with hope and naïve dreams.  

Get yourself a Clorox wipe, if you have one, and disinfect the image of yourself, because the past four years gave you a lot more than just the freshman 15. The extra weight you carry isn’t physical, and won’t show up on a scale. But it shows up in that uncombed hair in the reflection.

Last one out, unplug the coffee maker. Pack it up gently so it doesn’t break.

Pack it up and place a particular mug underneath it, the same one you used during those all-nighters sophomore year. Pack it up and perfectly protect that glass like it’s your life, because once upon a time, in the middle of midterms, it was. But the glory days are over.

Last one out, ensure the deadbolt is secure. One you’ve stepped out of the threshold, wiggle the door a little to make sure it feels right. Wrap your hands around the handle like your wrapped your arms around her body as you danced with her into the night, and cried when it was over. Wrap your arms around that handle like you wrapped your leg with bandages in that same dormitory when that prank freshman year went wrong.

Last one out, say I’m sorry. Say I’m sorry for not treating you right, for not taking in the moments like I should have. For staying in and studying when I should have been out making memories, and making out with the girl I’ll never see or talk to again. Say I’m sorry for being on a full ride to college, making the grades, but never being great. Having the right grade point, but never getting the point. Say I’m sorry for letting it slip by without taking care of what really mattered.

Last one out, return the keys. This isn’t your home anymore.

#poetry #college #dorm

[nickolisantiago]

[nickolisantiago]

Chicken and Dumplings

“Very good, dear” he says, raising another spoonful of chicken broth to his lips. They part ways and allow a thick stream of savory soup to slide in, and open even wider to allow a piece of breading to make its way through to the eagerly awaiting tongue inside. They close rapidly to keep the food concealed like a deep, dark secret. The process is repeated until the porcelain bowl is empty. ​     “It was easy” she says, raising a glass of cold milk to celebrate the occasion. It’s all part of the joke. The chef is supposed to thank the crowd for cooking a wonderful the meal, and the dinner guests are supposed to humbly accept the compliment.     It isn’t snowing here. It isn’t even cold. If anything, winter feels like the summer in Texas. The freezing New Jersey Decembers are a thing of the past, but the warmth of dinner still makes her feel like a Yankee. Grandpa cleans the dishes and the kitchen as usual, while the aroma of the meal still ventures throughout the house like a lost soul, looking for a vacancy sign on any nostrils to call home. It’s a lingering scent, even after dinner. It’s a reminder that she’s home, enjoying an evening with the ones she loves. His whistling fills her ears, making its way from the kitchen into the living room like a feather floating through the wind. ​     ...     “Very good, dear” my older sister says. She’s a 7-year-old with a lot of attitude, but has a braver tongue and palate than my own. I glance at my brother’s chocolate milk in disgust, and move my eyes toward the bowl of soup and dumplings in the bright blue bowl at my left.     “It was easy” I say, but the irony is my plate of chicken nuggets and ketchup. Mom asks me to take a spoonful of her chicken, just to try it. I defy her as usual, making it known that I’m perfectly content with my crispy tenders and strawberry beverage. She’s always trying to make me taste something, and this dish is a specialty; I recognize it as something she only makes a few times out of the year. Yet, I rebel and refuse. My sister finishes her meal, and I sit at the table blowing bubbles through my straw until I’m bored and full of microwaveable meat.   ​     ...     It’s a cold evening here in Manvel, which is unusual in October. The heater is broken again, so I surround myself with a fortress of blankets as I camp out in the living room. I’ve conquered the living room television, playing Xbox until the call of dinner takes me away from the remote. I sit at the table, moving over a pile of papers and unsorted receipts to make way for my meal. Mom hands me a bowl, and asks me to try it. I consider the request, and decide to dive in with my spoon. I’m immediately rewarded for my bravery. The combination of warmth, cooked chicken and fluffy bread makes me feel as if I’m chewing on a pillow. I swallow, and soon discover that I’m going back for seconds.     “Very good dear” she says, taking a seat on the living room couch. There’s not enough room at the table for all of us, but she ensures her children get food and seats first.     “It was easy” I say, but I’m a little too focused on my bowl to notice my dad entering through the backdoor. He’s upset again, and he places his guitar set down on the kitchen floor with a loud sigh. Without saying hello, he grabs a bowl and scoops in some broth. He goes back for three dumplings, placing them like floating buoys on top of an ocean of soup and chicken.  Like a phantom, he seems to float away; as quickly as he’s entered, he leaves the scene to take refuge in his room. My mom gets up to clean as my siblings chew on in an awkward silence. The lingering smell of dinner distracts me from the tension, up until my dad comes out of his room to place his bowl in the sink. He starts to raise his voice at my mom for no reason in particular, and picks up his musical devices like a suitcase and coat. He leaves through the backdoor, slamming it shut as we all look on in an anxious flurry of emotions. My mom just shakes her head, grabs another bowl of dumplings, and begins to package up the leftovers.     ...     It’s been 8 years since grandpa passed, but visiting the cemetery reminds me of the sight of the military woman wearing an indigo suit. A 21-gun salute by several soldiers brings back a memory of a man I barely knew, but one that my mom learned her culinary skills from. I still hear him whistling in the kitchen, and I see his face behind a pair of rectangular glasses. ​     As I look down at the grave site, and my grandma places the flowers down, I’m reminded of how quickly things went wrong. Leg pain, followed by cancer, took away the family’s chef. I’m filled with anger at my father for not attending the funeral; he’s since left my life to pursue a career of music and “worship,” and I only see him on holidays. But his absence is not the one haunting me in this moment.     I ask myself why good men like my grandfather die from cancer, while bullies like my father get to live. We head back to the car and return home, and my mom says she’ll prepare the special meal that brings us all a sense peace. ​     “Very good dear” my mom says, passing us each a bowl of dumplings and broth. I’m barely paying attention and almost spill my drink as my textbook bumps into a cup of sweet tea. I escape my thoughts for a while and allow the taste of chicken to ward off my worries of school and fading memories. My lips part ways, creating a tunnel for the soup and bread to enter. They close again, and I swallow the broth.     “It was easy” I say. The thunder outside is loud enough to shake the windows, and the vibrations cause our cats to jump away from the table in terror.     “Grandpa must be bowling again,” my older sister says. We laugh, and all agree. He’s probably getting strikes and spares with Jesus up there, having the time of his life as the scent of the dumplings rise up towards his place in the heavens.     ... ​     I park my car, and turn off the lights. I’ve had two exams this week and there’s a school event that I’m hosting on Friday that I haven’t even prepared for. I have three meetings to worry about on Monday, but none of that matters right now. It’s a Saturday night, and my sister is back from Austin with her boyfriend. My brother has already pulled in from his late shift at Home Depot. I’m the last one to arrive, but that same powerful aroma hits me as I open the backdoor to the house and make my way past our swarm of pets.     “Very good dear” my mom says, placing a bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of my brother.     “It was easy” he replies. I lock the door and take my seat at the kitchen table, and the whistling of my sister’s significant other from the living room fills my ears. Grandpa will never be gone. Like the scent of the dumplings, he lingers here, giving us warmth and comfort when we need it most.

This recipe was originally cooked by my grandpa and grandma. My mother has made her own modifications to the recipe. It continues to be a meal that she makes on special occasions, typically when we are not feeling well or when it is cold outside.

Ingredients (1 big pot, feeds 4 people) -Pack of 4-6 chicken thighs -Chicken bouillon -Salt and pepper -Garlic -Italian seasoning -Bisquick baking mix 

Recipe 1. Fill large pot with 6 cups water 2. Add 6 teaspoons of chicken bouillon 3. Rinse chicken thighs and season with salt, pepper, garlic and Italian seasoning 4. Add chicken thighs to pot of water 5. Boil for 1 hour 6. Remove chicken to platter, allow to cool 7. Remove skin from chicken; shred chicken 8. Place shredded chicken into pot 9. Bring to boil 10. Mix 2 cups of Bisquick with 2/3 cup milk until dough forms 11. Drop dough by spoonful onto boiling broth, reduce heat (simmer) and cook for 10 minutes without lid 12. Place lid on pot, cook additional 10 minutes 13. Turn off heat, prep bowls and serve  

[nickolisantiago]

Spoken Word at AvantGarden

Despite my terrible parking skills, I managed to fit my beat up Ford Explorer into the small lot on the side of AvantGarden’s dimly lit patio. After fumbling with my phone, paying the $5 cover charge and getting a nifty little sticker for following “Write About Now” on Instagram, my hand was stamped and I was motioned into a backyard area filled with small little chairs, smaller little tables, and the smallest little crowd. I had arrived at 7:30 on the dot, but quickly realized – in the midst of cigarette smoke, background chatter and clinging bottles of alcohol – being on time meant you were early here. Nobody was in a rush.

I found a seat two rows from the patio’s stage, towards the entrance. Plopping down on the black chair in front of me, I pulled out my pink sticky pad and started to take in the scenery.

Okay, Chinese lanterns on the ceiling. Hip. Bird cages full of glass ornaments. Odd. Big metal tower with a big red button. Weird.

“Excuse me, have you been here before?”

Someone had shown up in the row behind me, along with an impressive crowd that started to wind its way towards the stage. Some people sat, some stood, and a handful waited patiently for what I assumed would be a signup list for the night’s event. I turned around, facing a middle-aged woman with light brown hair.

“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” I replied. “Last summer actually, but I really enjoy poetry, and I’m working on an article about spoken word. You?”

She took a moment to reply, leaning back in her chair with her hand on her chin as if her mind was in the process of rewinding an old VHS tape that had just finished playing. She leaned forward again.

“I found this event randomly. I really like poetry but I’ve only heard it performed once, in an Uber actually! I was high on Shrooms and my driver just started telling me that she performs and started spitting out lines.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder, which was a little startling. I didn’t think too much on it, however, as she soon explained that she was a massage therapist of some sort. Her smile and gestures seemed genuine enough for me.

“My name’s Chris, I do massages for people, so personal touch is a big thing for me. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kyle,” I replied as she removed her hand, her eyes looking up towards the stage as the MC for the night took hold of the microphone. She leaned back in her chair once more, and the odd exchange of words came to a close as the man at the mic began to speak. Another guy with a red hat sat next to me.

Is everyone here as open as her?

“Welcome to ‘Write About Now,’ where everyone is welcome unless you’re racist and orange, but nobody wants to judge here!” I made a mental note of how many Trump jokes the host made, and each one left the crowd laughing and clapping in unison. “This is our ‘new shit’ night, so if you have a new poem you want to read, come up and sign the list and we’ll get started shortly.”

Sure enough, the event was underway 30 minutes later, another indication that this slam was made up of people who honestly didn’t want to be held down by the clock. Ironically, the chosen poets for the night were allotted a brief two minutes to speak, but this was more out of courtesy for the audience I felt; there would be several rounds of poems, the MC explained, and winners would be chosen from each round to advance.

“Before Trump bans free speech, let’s give it up for Jason!” The crowd laughed and applauded, while the MC motioned to a twentyish-year-old Asian guy with glasses in the front row. The man strolled onto the stage like he’d done this before. I was certain that he had, as his verses came out as smooth as silk and left the crowd in awe. He spoke about heartache and loss, telling the crowd that you “can’t nurse a burn if you hold onto the fire.” His arm outstretched, a cell phone in the palm, Jason continued to pour out his heart amidst the snaps of thumbs against middle fingers. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered from earlier, dancing in my nose but also giving weight to the words of this man’s emotional struggles.

His time was up, and a girl appeared on stage. “New shit,” she yelled, and the crowd yelled back. It was a common practice, a ritual for these people; when a poet was performing a new piece, and said the magic words, it was the obligation of the audience to echo back. Her poem was clever and sarcastic; it was a list of rules for women on how to survive in a world dominated by presidents who want to grab women in the crotch. The judges shared my sentiment.

Race-based lyrics, fast-paced rhymes and body shaming poems followed, but one stood out among the others. A large woman with a Super Mario hat came onto the stage, taking the microphone and beginning a heartbreaking piece about her struggle with weight.

“I’m a weirdo,” she sang. A Lady Gaga verse was intertwined within the piece, creating a pitiful bastardization of song and free-verse lines that were emphasized with her raised voice and occasional screams. The judges gave her good scores, but the haunting feeling she left behind as she left the stage was intriguing. It made me wonder why, and how, someone in such a vulnerable state would want to speak so openly and so beautifully to a crowd of strangers about her Achilles’ heel.

Several poets followed, but few matched her raw emotion. One poet’s piece about not being gender-binary stood out as one of the best of the night, but the screams and voice of this woman still flooded my ears and refused to leave. Despite this, I found one overarching commonality with the pieces presented; there was a desire to be heard, and not be ignored. There was a deep desire among the poets to be understood, to have a chance to speak on a stage before the world and explain “imperfections” that nobody else cared to examine in greater detail. Before leaving, I said goodbye to Chris the massage therapist, and took a picture with her and the man at my left.

Among the sad parts, some happiness and hope could be found in one of the final verses I heard from a Hispanic man towards the end. “There is a space for pain and joy...I don’t always have to explain myself but I will.”  

[nickolisantiago]

PENsive as ever #bigworld #littlekyle #lego

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 30: Lego

I'm a little obsessed with Lego bricks, but I don't really care how that looks to people anymore. Honestly, I like having my pieces spread out on the floor. I like looking at the instructions and experimenting with the pieces, and finally figuring out how that one flat four stud piece fits perfectly between the two tires on that red racecar set. I like the bricks, and I like the sets. I like having it all together and putting the prize up on shelf, basking in glory and just being in awe of how cool it looks. But if I had a dollar for every time a damn set fell off the shelf, I'd be a billionaire. That Millennium Falcon crash landed on the closet floor last month and I'm still finding bits from the hyper-drive scattered around the room. But the best starships aren't the ones that sit on the shelf. The best sets are the ones that actually dare to fly, the ones that risk crashing to the ground in a pile of multicolored chaos for the sake of the experience. For the ride, for the joy, for the final flight. So when I picked up those pieces, and assembled what I could of the fallen bird, I noticed how awesome it was that we could put back together the pieces that mattered, yet leave behind the ones that don't. I improvised and built a new, sleeker ship instead. Out of disorder, a powerful new set arose. I'm a lot like that Lego set. Out of my falls in life may come a million crashing pieces, but I'll be damned if I don't rebuild myself brick by brick into a beautiful new set that plans to hit shelves this upcoming winter season. I'm the best set there is, because I don't sit on the shelf. I throw myself off, shatter to pieces, and rebuild. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge #lego #poem

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 29: Emerald Eyes

He bowed his head, baptized in the sink. Shaved off his beard, and away he went. Off to work. Doing the same thing. But doing it with vigor, and with lasting convictions. Strength. He needed it. So he created it from the weights. Happiness. He needed it. So he found it in the smile in the mirror's reflection. Not a day went by that he didn't think of the pain, but it didn't consume him anymore. He was moving on to bigger and better things. The fury remained, but fired up at other tasks. The light didn't fade, but brightened up his emerald green eyes. Ahead was a path, and he took it in stride. Ready to move, ever worthy and able. He bowed his head, showered, and looked up at the reflection. He didn't recognize the guy, and it made him cherish the change. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 28: Humazing Grace

In a lonely world, communication is salvation. A latch key, a tiny victory amidst many defeats. A single smile, a little text, reminds the world that it can't touch you. Human connection brings me to my best state of mind. Humazing grace, how sweet your sound. The crying, the laughter and the parting goodbyes. You saved a wretch, and you also saved me. What was lost may not be found, but I'll always be glad to get lost in someone's smile. And there rests true grace. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 27: Storm

Rain rain, come and play. Go again, it's another day. Thunder shake, the ground beneath. Tremble, growl and grit your teeth. Cloudy skies, wet lips. The lightning cracks, a silver whip. The puddles gather, drops above. The tree, a refuge for a fleeing dove. Pitter patter, on the roof. Angry dog, bitter woof. Crying child, barely two. Drenched socks, t-shirt too. Sitting quiet, lonely dorm. Enjoying rain, peace in the storm. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 26: He Flew Down Under

He flew down under but he came back up. He left a lot behind in the Wellington shrubs. He came back a man with a little less fear, capable of doing it all over again if he was asked. He was in love with the world, and it loved him back. Sure it gave him a few kicks in the shin, but it was all in good fun. The bruises toughened his spirit and made him cherish the good times even more. He went down under and came back up, leaving behind a lot of doubt and insecurity on top of Mount Vic. He wasn't much for drama, and it decided to stay at the airport terminal before he came home. It wasn't the easiest life, but it was one worth living. The more he lived in the present, the more he left behind the past. Sure, he had a lot to do. Sure, he had a lot of problems. But when you go down under and return back smiling, you sorta feel free to do anything you want with your new found freedom. One day I'll go back, and I'll get out of this place. Fly away and return to a place that taught me how to be myself. But until then, I'm happy here. Down under the pressure of life, smiling like the king of his own universe. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 25: This Side Up

This side up. Open the box carefully. You'll probably need a blade to cut through the tape. It'll only take a second. A small snip, and you're in. Open each flap gently, as this container is old. It's a bit battered on the edges and it's not the easiest thing to hold. The first side opens, the second follows through. The third flap is lifted and the fourth comes too. It's open now, the box is vulnerable. Ready to be used and ready to hold onto another object, ready to protect and store someone's love. But be gentle, the bottom of the box has a few holes. There are marks where old memories once sat and those holes aren't going to be easy to cover up. If you're not careful they'll get bigger and the weight of those memories will tear it to pieces. Place your belongings in carefully, and please be careful. It's a small box, nothing too exciting. It never held an expensive TV and probably wasn't the owner of the newest Xbox, but it held onto something once. It knows it was meant to serve a purpose. It's not your average box, as it always seems to be putting itself in the way of things. It knows it's going to get kicked around and beaten up, yet the box doesn't shy away from its job. Just do the box this simple service, if you can. When you take hold of it, bring some tape. It doesn't have to be that expensive kind, but merely something that is capable of holding back tears. Tears. Which is which? This box doesn't know, so if you could kindly place those pieces on the holes and the flaps when you're done, it would help a lot. The box knows you're not going to be here forever, but it'll stay open to you as long as you're kind to it. It won't shut itself unless it feels threatened, and even then...it'll take its time. It doesn't want to lose what it holds. If you place it down, place it this side up. It wants it's head held high, regardless of how you leave it. It'll probably get a few more holes and need a lot more tape before it's ready to call it quits, but this box is ready to hold onto you and your problems. Think about the box, not always outside of it. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 24: Thankful

I'm thankful for living, breathing and thinking. I'm thankful for the beauty in all that I'm doing. I'm thankful for grass, the moon and the sky. I'm thankful for the dawn at the end of the night. I'm thankful for my name, my legacy and choices. I'm thankful for listening to so many voices. I'm thankful for learning, for moving and growing. I'm thankful that my maturity is finally showing. I'm thankful for aging, for life and for death. I'm thankful that the universe isn't done with me yet. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge

[nickolisantiago]

Poem 23: He Pushed a Mountain

He pushed on a mountain and the rocks broke through. John Henry did it once and I can too. The machines of our adversaries have nothing on you. I wield two hammers: love and truth. I break the stone, the clay falls too. The broken pieces all shatter through. I tunnel my way into the open blue. I see a sky ahead and I've got nothing left to lose. I lift my hammers and slam onto The mountain ahead, unafraid of you. I'm bigger than the rocks I'm shackled to. The mountain can slow me, but I'll make it move. #poetrymoment #30daychallenge