I regret having to begin this tale with the end – isn’t it just so cliché? So, here I am, announcing the wondrous denouement of a life that I have overwhelmingly enjoyed, a life full of meaning, work, and dedication.

Look, world! I am happy! For sixteen years I have chiseled away at the rock from every direction to find the exact form of the pristine gem inside; I have pleased my teachers, my parents, and myself with my schoolwork, I have nourished my passions for music and for science and for writing and reading, I have cultivated the epitome of the low-key but blisteringly persistent and passionate love with the boy of my dreams.

So, you wonder, why the hell this girl is bothering to write anything at all, since, of course, every good tale needs a plot, a conflict, a problem, a tension for the ages, right?

But, even though I’m starting here at the end, the “happily ever after,” I’m not going to go back and recapitulate how I got here; that would be redundant. Instead, I’m going to mark this as the beginning of something different, something beyond the storybooks.

I will admit right now I’ve absorbed a fair share of romances, and one thing I’ve always noticed is that the story ends after the couple of interest mutually confesses, goes on a first date, or gets hitched. But what happens after that? Is it just not interesting enough to write about – is the dating series a descent into ritual and monotony? – is marriage not as great as the wedding day? Or, what if … what if life after that perfect moment will never match it again? What if, after the first date, the couple falls out of love?

People always hope to find closure – the final chords in the symphony, the closing voiceover of a movie, the final speech of a dying soldier. But life isn’t a symphony. It has no grandiose chords that tell you that it’s time to go out with a bang. You gotta keep singing and singing without ever stopping, keep on voicing over without drinking any water, keep on speaking out – keep on doing, keep on going. And in the end you’re exhausted, you’re exhausted, gasping for breaths, and the whole thing blanks out.

If you stop, you’ll be left behind, you’ll be exiled, you’ll be ever-forgotten. Like a pop singer without a new hit every year, like a basketball player who breaks his or her leg, like a little girl who stops to smell the roses or kiss her boyfriend one too many times.

Ah, Ryan, what would you say to me now? Would you tell me to keep on going? Would you tell me to kiss you again? Love makes all else seem so worthless, and the loss of love will make that semblance a reality. How can I make sure that the rest of our lives together cannot be simply summarized as “and they lived happily ever after?” How can I make sure that the rest of our lives together will not turn into mutual exile? How can I make sure that I will never lose you?

And you will tell me that I should find some new setting in which to contemplate, for it is my life. You will not know how my wishes could come true. You can only answer by saying “I love you,” the only promise you can make. Promises can be broken, Ryan. Keep it, keep it, keep it, keep it; keep on going, keep on going, keep on going ….

Dialogue 1. Dealing with the Beach. [«]

Everyone tells me that the beach is a great place to rejuvenate when home seems too dull. That’s why I’m here on the coastline, wandering on the McLaughlott sands in a bikini. I must say that I had never thought of myself wearing such a revealing swimsuit before, but my friend, whose eye for color is impeccable, bought me the blue set, and I couldn’t help but fall victim to how serenely the shades of aquamarine and Copenhagen blue blended together in the mesmerizing patterns of the fabric.

That’s why I feel disappointed when, upon sitting in the water, the blues begin to camouflage and I feel like I’ve been dissected in three. But I love sitting in the water as much as I love swimming, and the saline air was just right for inhaling from a sitting position. I notice after a few minutes that I’m in fact sitting on a sand dollar. It’s an ordinary sand dollar, one of those empty echinoderm shells that was chipped just so that it would not be very valuable and one would be reluctant to display among the polished conches of the seashell-trophy-case.

I pick it up and hold it for a short while, but a sudden belch of air from the ocean in front of me catches my attention. A mop of hair rises out of the surface and suddenly there is a man standing there. He shakes about to spray the salt water all over me, which I defiantly lick off my lips.

I immediately know that he is a deceased poet because he has a cap on that is embroidered with a dolphin.

In a low, booming voice, he begins,

“Ah, beauteous figure before me,

How my mind cannot help but see

The way this singular drop of water

Reflects the innocent purity contained in thee?

“The shimmering, the natural clarity,

The essential perfect molarity

Of salt! Oh, how to taste the water

And thus your moist fibrous hairs with alacrity!”

“Ah, I’m flattered by your admiration,” I comment, “But how can you see any beauty in me when you do not even love me?”

The wise dead poet answers, “Because beauty is everywhere; it is the unifying force of the world.”

“Even a soot-covered smokestack is beautiful?” I ask.

He clears his throat and proceeds:

“The soot is deep, violently so,

Clinging to the

Bricks that are so impregnable and yet

Delicate to the touch;

The feel of the crumbling dust in my fingers

Recalls ages

The rise and the

Fall; the coming of change, the sweeping of the clouds,

And then it is complete;

I blow on the dainty particles staining my fingers,

Smeared like blood, the blood of change,

The beauty of the ebony nostalgia.”

I give him some applause for successfully communicating the punctuation and line breaks to me, though I cannot help but feel the pulsating irony in all of this.

“Mr. Poet –”

“It’s Lawn. Richard Lawn, like Law but with an “n” at the end.”

“- Mr. Lawn, can you honestly tell me that soot on a smokestack is beautiful? Or is what you see not really beauty, but simply soot, an object that you force, with a sleight of words, into a memory? Has soot ever made you happy?” I inquire.

“Ah, ma cherie, you question not just my own art but the very essence of the world. Can you say that soot is really anything at all? Let us quit our kidding; I know you are far too piercing and observant to fall victim to words. Soot does not move anyone. No one cares about soot except that it is dirty. Likewise, the sky isn’t really anything, either. It’s a big empty thing, but could you imagine living without it? It does not even exist, and you cannot imagine living without it! Isn’t its beauty meaningless, just like soot?” the poet contends.

I smile because, for once, the poet is honest. “I suppose we are all poets after all, then. The blue of the sky is nothing but a perception, an illusion, but indeed, I do love it and I could not live without it.”

“And so its beauty is simply an object of inspiration, just like soot or your body or that marvelous swimsuit that you have on whose name I do not know, for I died before it was invented.”

“You’re a pervert,” I declare.

The deceased poet gives a hearty laugh, which is contagious enough that I laugh along with him; suddenly, he seems stricken by an idea: “Dear girl, are the poor still around?”

“Poor people?” I ask.

“Yes, the type that suffers a lot,” he clarifies.

I give a nod, “There are, unfortunately, still many people living in poverty in this world.”

The poet protests, “Oh, no, no, I did not ask in hopes that it was abolished. I am actually pleased that there are still poor people in the world. They offer quite a nice subject for writing, don’t you think? In school, the teachers ask middle school students to write about a problem in society, and they immediately embark on a touching tale of the suffering that the impoverished endure and how it is the greatest pitfall of modern civilization.

“When I was young and fresh out of the university, I eagerly wanted to effect change in this world. I thus looked about the city and found a poor family. I wrote a poem about them and their plight, and I presented it to an audience that gave it wonderful applause. And poverty was still there. I wrote and wrote and wrote until one day I had an epiphany: the poor ceased to be a real problem; the poems began to exist for themselves and as an allegory for something that I honestly no longer comprehend.”

I look down into the water and see my face and his. “You bastard,” I say softly, “You think that with all your ‘experiences’ and ‘wisdom’ that your cynicism will be appreciated as wit and your words as some transcendental message on the state of the world! Just die again.” And I throw the sand dollar in his face, killing him.

I sit back down into the water, noticing that I am once again upon a sand dollar, and I pick it up. It has a small fortune inside, such as one would find in a fortune cookie.

“Save the trees,” the paper reads.

Discussion 2. Why People Should Not Abuse Pineapples. [«]

Rather unsatisfied with the effect of beach air on my status, I return home to realize that my mother has bought five pineapples. They are sitting next to each other on the counter so that it’s very easy to tell which one is the tallest.

A pineapple is a compound fruit, composed of the fruits of many individual flowers clumped together. How many flowers am I? My long black hair ought to count for one all by itself, and I suppose the rest of my body excepting my brain could count for another. But is a brain really a flower, too, or is it just a leaf?

I am two flowers and a leaf, and the pineapples are a thousand flowers apiece. In jealousy, I move the pineapples to the back of the counter when I hear the doorbell ring.

Nervously, I open the door.

Dialogue 2. Choosing Between a Pineapple and a Girl. [«]

Ryan is standing there, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“I love you, Exilie,” he says affectionately. I lunge forward out the doorframe and kiss his lips, a sudden movement that knocks Ryan off-balance and makes the bouquet fall to the ground.

He hastily retrieves the flowers without letting his eyes leave me, and I wonder if I had ever seen a smile so beautiful in my life before – a smile so beautiful because it was on my love’s lips, because I knew I was the cause of it.

“It’s a wonderful day. Would you like to stay out here on the porch?” I invite.

There are no chairs on the porch, so we just sit down on the bricks. The soft fabric of my skirt feels fluid, draped over my knees and rustling so gently.

“Exilie, our life now cannot last forever in the same way, you know?”

I laugh. “Don’t treat me like an idiot!” I cry playfully, wrapping my arm around his shoulder.

“Sometimes, life is like this:” he begins. “You begin by wandering about, exploring what sorts of things you might want to do, and you meet all sorts of new ideas, new places, new people. At a certain point, you find a goal, something that you really want to do, and you feel like destiny drives you towards that goal. You naturally run forward, learning, swallowing, until finally you can wake up, an adult, at the very climax of your life, when you’ve finally realized the very meaning of your life: and then you radiate – happiness practically pours forth – and then you can settle down with the very special person of your life. I feel like this is a time when I have to begin moving towards my goal … .”

He trails off and my heart is beating very quickly. Did he think that I could not see through his naughty plan?

“Ryan, I’m sorry but I’m not ready to have sex with you. Couldn’t you wait just a bit longer?”

Ryan looks flabbergasted. “Wha-? I’m not talking about sex! Whatever gave you that i-de…”

He pauses, and then continues: “Exilie, you perverted girl! I’m talking about where my life is taking me. I promised you I would be with you forever, but for a time – that is, college – I need to leave your side for a bit. But when I’ve climbed my way through, then I will find you again. Do you understand?”

“You damn idiot, of course it’s not okay! I’m not going to stop you from reaching your dreams, but you make it seem like you can run forward by yourself! Let me rewrite your little account so that it’s for real, if you catch my drift: You begin by wandering about with someone who you can trust, and eventually you two agree on a common goal. Together, you run forward, learning, discovering – I’m going to leave out swallowing because it’s a bit too much for my innocent mind to handle – until finally you wake up as an adult with her, finding that you have accomplished something – that you have home, jobs, security, and the love is sealed because you know that you could not have done any of it without her. And with that, you can slow down and enjoy the fresh air and raise a family. You know what, Ryan?”

“What?”

“I’m feeling really uncomfortable right now. I really don’t think we should compare life to sex anymore.”

“Exilie! You’re the one who started it!”

“Ah, fuck it … so you’re going to leave me? So I take it you’ve decided where you want to go? I’m really happy for you, Ryan, I really am. I’m just … selfish I guess … I want you to be around me forever … . But … I have my own goals, too. I can’t change them to find you … what if we never meet again? What if we miss each other? Oh, God, that was quite terrible, wasn’t it …”

“Yeah, it was very bad,” Ryan agrees. “But sweetie, I’ll always remember you!”

“Ryan! You know there are pineapples out there. I’m only two freaking flowers and a brain; how do you expect me to believe you when I know you want lots of pineapples to eat?!”

“Exila, Exila, Exila. What do you want me to do, then?”

I bend my elbow out of stress, and I practically have Ryan in a headlock. I can feel the tears burning in my eyes, and every word is almost unintelligible because of my whimpering.

“I don’t know what I want you to do!! Am I supposed to know?! I love you so much that I would be happy no matter where you end up! But I’m human, too, and I want to be with you. Oh I don’t know … I’m only sixteen … I don’t want to break up with you, but I don’t want to hold you back here when you should be moving forward.”

Ryan struggles a bit to remind me that I have him in a headlock. “Oh, sorry dear,” I apologize.

“Damn it, I knew coming here wouldn’t help at all. You’re just so perfect that you will even let me go … and because of that now I cannot convince myself that it is better to stay!” he cries, exasperated.

“We could always test out a long-distance relationship,” I offer.

Ryan looks crestfallen, so I lift him into an embrace and we kiss again as the sun beats down on the fresh spring sprouts.

Dialogue 3. Why I Will Stay Here. [«]

Reminisce, for a moment. I can always choose, can’t I?