Liz Schauer

The older I get, the more I learn about myself. That may seem like a blatantly obvious statement, but go with me for a minute. It is easy to settle into the routine of life. Get up, go to work, get coffee with a friend, watch Wheel of Fortune (yes, I do), cook dinner, go to bed, and do it all over again the next day. I have fallen prey to the monotony monster and have failed to stop and reflect on my life, on who I am becoming, on what I am working towards and Who I am working for. It is in moments when I don’t have anything to ‘do’ that I actually stop and think. I am learning to utilize those moments to gain understanding about situations that I am in and life in general. In essence, I am learning how I learn. As that title may have hinted, I learn through writing. I understand the world through similes and metaphors, by personifying things that otherwise wouldn’t be, and by creating rhythms of sounds that weave my thoughts together. I normally don’t share my writing, but in an effort to grow and learn, I am starting. Here is my most recent piece:

Faces

Faces.

They’re everywhere.

Not the kind that can be clearly seen.

Not like that of a grandmother, whose wrinkles tell of the thousands of miles she has traveled to see her grandkids and hold up her son during the divorce.

Not like that of a three-year old, whose pupils reflect the question mark that is spinning in her head.

No. Not like those.

They aren’t like the young professional’s either; whose insecurities are intricately masked by foundation, eyeliner and blush.

The bearded man that walks by isn’t the one that is trapped in the decade of ‘real music.’ His un-groomed face doesn’t tell of the summer of 69 in New York. His lips aren’t wrinkled from being pursed all night long around a rolled piece of parchment.

The teenage boy watching his footsteps isn’t the one whose acne-scarred face met the torment of bullies every year since the seventh grade.

The six-year old black girl’s eyes aren’t like those of her late Papa’s, whose read signs that denied his humanity with two words.

Those aren’t the faces that pass.

The ones that pass resemble Qin Shi Huang’s Terracotta Army, blurs of similarity streaking by seamlessly.

Statues of stone, shells of humans, lips sealed to conceal the secrets hiding inside.

One crack of the terracotta might be all it takes to spill all that is held within.

I look at the chisel in my hand and glance back at the faces; this small pointed metal bomb has the ability to smash the all-too-fragile armor that buzzes by.

A simple question could send story after story pouring through the perfectly sculpted face of a statue who isn’t a statue after all.

One quick swing sends a shattering through my own bones.

The wake of silence brings a rhythm; quiet at first but growing louder by the second.

Memories are recanted, wounds are relived; the rhythm increases.

Faster and faster I see that the stone encasement contained a person just waiting to come alive.