Christian P.

The Eyes Of A Longhorn

One night, I had a dream that made zero sense to me. I was surrounded by friends and loved
ones, one of which was a smart, beautiful, creative, and poetic young woman. The young
woman was a mismatch in her own way of amazing with a splash of vibrancy throughout her mane, and dark stories in her words. She was elegant, frail but she had a sense of toughness
about herself. Something that said, “Words speak louder than action!” Despite her toughness, she seemed incapable of being a bother to any insect, let alone a person. So you can understand my confusion when my dream skipped a few scenes and cut to the one where I was violently punching her and choking her out on the floor of what I imagined as a paradise. With every punch, I could feel a new part of her face shattering under the force of my growing rage. I could feel mounds of pain forming in her jawline and never had I been so fierce, and yet so content with myself. Our friends threw my anger off of her as she lie there, out of will to live, stained in a concoction of blood and tears and why would you do that and are you proud of yourself and do you feel better now. I woke up and forgot about the dream until later that day. Part of me refused to believe that I would do anything close to what I envisioned, and the rest of me knew it was inside all along just waiting to burst in a volcanic fit of hate and rage and anger and...

I stared at myself in my aunt’s mirror. My eyes were red from the tears in my esteem as I stared angrily at this monster in the mirror. As I took a closer look at myself I noticed how much my eyes had resembled a Longhorn, As arrogant as a rose, knowing that if I mess with it I’ll only end up pricking my finger on its fury. Laughing in my face, pleased with the damage it’s done, leaving no sign of remorse, no forgiveness, no recovery, just betrayal, just hurt, just evil, just contempt, just the red swelling inside of its eyes waiting for it to burst in a volcanic fit of hate and anger and rage and...

That night, I became sprinkler. I was constantly pouring out but no control over who I would hit. But I was calm, poised. I allowed my embers to fall gently to my esteem. The smog in the air was beginning to clear and I was entering my state of dormancy still allowing the magma and red to cool forming a new mass, a new face, a new Longhorn.