“You were born in the wrong generation,” said Mr. VandenBerg Sr. when he saw my rusted, squeaking, 8-passenger maroon, and woody striped 1991 Chevy van. “You belong in the 1960's,” he said.

            I grew up with flowers in my hair. With hand-me-down clothes. With compassion. With a tendency to root for the underdog. “Molly, you have to wear shoes!” my mother would scream out the door, an order either not heard or ignored as I raced into the woods to read a book in my fort.

            “DON'T KILL IT!” I wailed at my father as he stalked out to shoot the pesky neighborhood woodchuck, shotgun in hand. In a flood of tears I followed him all the way down to the swamp, begging him to turn around and leave the woodchuck alone. A few weeks later when that same woodchuck was killed by a car, I buried it— wild tulips and daisies on its grave.

            In first grade I discovered my first journal, fell headlong into its pages, and became an artist. Ten years later, there is a stack of old journals in the back of my closet, each filled cover to cover with the frenzied handwriting of an individual who has never been truly content with society. It is a handwriting of optimism too; the handwriting of an artist who knows that someday these very words could make a difference in the world.

            All the beliefs living within that brown haired, gawky little girl have submerged in concrete and definitive form. I do not eat meat, I do not drink or smoke, I do not support the war. I strive for equal rights for gays, I wish to bring our soldiers home, I hope to stop AIDS. I know what I believe, and I am constantly walking toward the place I'm meant to be. Barefoot.

            Fifty-one years ago, in 1960 I would have been nearly the same child, only wearing brown corduroy pants instead of tattered, grass-stained jeans. Forty-six years ago, I would have been among the white who marched on Washington in 1963, a majority bending down and extending a hand hoist up the oppressed and broken. Forty years ago, in 1970, I would have been at Kent State, holding a sign demanding withdrawal from Cambodia.

            However, in 2009 I wear secondhand clothes, aviators, and a headband around my forehead. A peace sign necklace dangles from my neck in front of my “Love Wins, Support Love”  t-shirt. I walk barefoot. I was at the proposition-eight protests in California. I was among the animal rights activists protesting the Rodeo outside Van Andel. I was in Melborne screaming “Fuck Bush! Bring our soldiers home!” My beliefs are clear and defined, and when I cannot walk to these places, my heart is in them. And someday I will walk to them, barefoot.

            In 1961 I would have been John Howard Griffin, giving as much as I could in order to affectively write in a way to change the world. In a way, I am his protege. Everything I strive for is to write the right combination of words that, when someone reads them, might make a difference. Equal rights for blacks. Equal rights for animals. Equal rights for gays. The purpose is the same; to help someone who is too oppressed to help himself.

            I am doing everything I can to follow in John Howard Griffin's footsteps. I will follow in his footsteps— barefoot I will follow him.

I believe that I will always be myself; not any place, nor time, nor circumstance could make me walk away from what I stand for. And time is unimportant to me. It doesn’t matter that I would have been “normal” in the 1960’s; I was born in 1992— I cannot make any difference to the 1960’s, but I can change the world I live in now.

To Kalani, a boy whom I love, whom I couldn't live without, and who deserved to hear this weeks ago. I'm sorry it took so long to find the right words.

She never knew the darkness that knew her. It was persistent, enticing, and overbearing. Hypnotic, irrevocable, dangerous. And yet, it was deceptive; she knew it not.

She never turned her head to find it crawling furtively in the cast of her shadow, nor did she ever close her eyes to see it lying thickly spread across her eyelids. She never looked up to see it overcastting the air above, nor down to see its blotches pool in the ink running across her page.

Her life was more than dusk, more than the inevitable disappearance of the sun. More than the promise that day will become night, and more than the theft of light from her world; she was more than fading away.

Her life had become a sunset; the theft of light disguised in beautiful color. She never watched to see the darkness march forth from the horizon, dim the color, and meet her; she knew it not.

Taking full advantage of its disguise, the darkness became her. It engulfed her, permeated her skin, seeped along her veins, saturated her smiles. Every breath drew the darkness into her, and she knew it not.

She was slowly dying, and she knew it not.

But you saved her.

You embrace her in the soft warmth emanating from your heart. You shine, and cast the darkness from her shadows. You breath, and blow away the night. You speak, and, with your voice, write the words of her inspiration.

“Smile,” you said. “You’re sad.” And then she knew.

One cannot know happiness without knowing what it is to be sad. The night has never looked darker, but day never brighter. A tear has never seemed so cold, but a smile never warmer. Loneliness ever close, love never closer.

It is not night when she sees your face, therefore she knows there is no night in you. Defending her from the darkness, you shine. You shine, and keep her safe. You shine, and she smiles.

You are a sunrise. You yawn, bearing colors that bleed through the darkness, you smile and spark a growth from the horizon. Though the clouds, you weave colors imbibed in promise. Your brilliance inebriates her with hope, and happiness, and love.

She loves you for your colors. She loves you for your light; she will always love you. And she needs you.

She needs you to shine, she cannot see in the darkness. She cannot smile in the night. She needs the warmth from your rays, and she needs you to ward off the tears.

Please don’t let the sun go down on her.

And even if the sun cannot find its way around the clouds, she’ll always know it’s there, she’ll always lift her eyes to look; she’ll always love it. She’s nothing without the sun, no matter where it is. She loves you for your light; she will always love you.

NOTE: I'm sorry for my extended absense. I have fallen very ill, and have been in and out of diagnostic surgeries as the doctors try to figure out what's wrong with me. Lately I havent had much energy for anything besides sleeping, but my friend is in trouble. This is my way of helping him :]

I wish I could scream these words to you. Every part of me wishes that I could confront you with my voice raised, my arms open, my insecurities lying unprotected and unconcealed. Every piece of my heart wishes to should out its beating rhythm in a string of words laced with breathless passion. I wish I could scream these words to you.

“Love never dies,” I wish I could shout. “It only gets tired, or frustrated, or lost. Love only breaks, but not an irreversible fracture, a broken that can be mended; we can revive the tired, pacify the frustrated, and find all the lost. Simply, love never dies,” I wish I could scream.

“I believe in second chances,” I wish I could shout. “I believe that mistakes can be forgiven and dismissed, that the past can be rendered to produce a different outcome, that hindsight can give the heart enough power to fuel love. I believe that a second chance could yield happiness unto us for a second time, that a second chance would uncover a second love, a wonderful love. Please believe in second chances,” I wish I could scream.

“Everyone has faith in love,” I wish I could shout. “Everyone believes that love is a force that can right wrongs, and defeats any hindrance thrust before it. Everyone believes that love is thriving, livid somewhere in the expanse around him; everyone believes that eventually he will find it. Everyone believes that love is an immaculate bliss, a happiness never tinted, a never ending song. You believe in love; believe in us,” I wish I could scream.

“The unavoidable can’t be avoided,” I wish I could shout. “We will fall in love again. I can’t believe that the unstoppable can be stopped, the unbreakable broken, or the unreachable reached; I can’t believe that love can fall out of two people, or that two people can fall out of love. I cannot believe that love can be extinguished, left behind, ignored,” I wish I could scream.

“I love you, you idiot,” I wish I could shout. “I will always love you, I can’t let go,” I wish I could scream.

There were so many words pulsing through me. There were so many words aching to escape, so many held tightly within me, so many words I could have spoken, so many I could have screamed. There were words begging to be shouted, countless words emanating from my heart, fighting my lungs and my mind to be released in a scream before you.

And yet, I could barely whisper.

“I think I’m still in love with you,” I breathed.

So many words compacted into eight, so many letters truncated to twenty-six, so much passion subdued.

“I think I’m still in love with you,” I whispered.