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i never set out to become anything

in particular, only to live creatively

and push the scope of my experience

for adventure, for passion.

[the dark side of the lens]

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i knew a guy once, when i was a kid. we went to the same school. he was gone for a while one semester, and when he came back, he had a scar running up the side of his face, from his lip to his temple, a grotesque smile. his fourwheeler had flipped, pinning him in the dirt.

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he didn't say much about it. when he was asked, he just relayed the facts, but he looked haunted. he was all blond and cheekbones, and though i'd never spoken with him before, i felt like i knew why.

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i could picture him, hitting the ravine, the point where one wheel started to dip down, that moment of nongravity. that second when he began to fly through the air, and the world faded out, and all he could hear was a song, high, clear, and cold. it hit frenzy pitch, it felt like arms around his waist, like the truest thing there was. he couldn't remember anything after that.

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that's what left the scar, i knew. a few weeks after that he left for homeschooling because we all watched his face, the place where the handlebar had gone clean through his cheek, even the teachers. we just couldn't seem to stop.