Between heaven and hell, there is this thing called earth.  Between earth and sky, there is this thing called life.  Between life and death there is this thing called choice.  And with choice comes the consequences of desire, forgiveness, hate…and love. 

All humans are born with desire.  All humans are taught to forgive.  All humans are shaped by hatred.  But very few know how to love.  And I am not one of them.

My right hand grips the six-foot-long wooden staff, treating it as one of my own limbs.  The still air around me masks my heavy breathing as my body flicks effortlessly through oblivion.  It’s one…two…three flips, like the ticking of the clock above the door. 

My mind spins along until my feet touch on solid ground again, lungs contracting painfully.  A bead of perspiration rests in the arch of my eyebrow and my arms tremble with exhaustion.  A brief blast of pain suddenly shoots from my shoulder down to my fingertips.  It’s just enough to shock my hand into letting go of the pole, and it clatters to the floor, sending a pungent echo throughout the room.  I drop to my knees and massage my throbbing hand painfully.

Sleepless nights in an empty apartment and countless hours at the practice studio were being less than kind to my helpless body. 

Encouragement is one thing, and passion is another.  What I have is the latter, and it’s all that keeps me going.  The life I live is a petty one, with nothing to look forward to and very little to look back on. 

I come to the studio everyday with decreasing hope of a click or something that will trigger the memories, but it all ends with defeat and the studio owner booting me out by eight.

Tonight is no different. 

When I reach the door of apartment 52, I find a thick, yellow envelope.  It had been tucked deftly under the space that separates nothingness and reality; the crack of the door.

I bend down to retrieve it, and find it addressed directly to me.  My somber hands unlock the door to the dark apartment and I enter.

I don’t bother to turn on any lights.  Instead, I use a match to kindle the flame of the candle resting on the nightstand, beside the bed that I scarcely use.

 To: Huang Zitao

      93 Pearl st. West apt. 52

From: WIL Academy of Arts

I tear open the envelope carefully, and a layer of papers drifts to the floor.  The first one I pick up is an introduction letter.  The paper the letter is written on is dense between my fingers and the ink is still fresh. 

                Congratulations, Student Huang Zi Tao!

We are pleased to notify you that we have accepted your applicant forms and have chosen you as a novice of WIL Academy of Arts. 

To observe this occasion, Headmaster Yoon has scheduled an official orientation for our new students.  We hope that you receive the invitation and reply by this Wednesday.

                                                Sincerely,

WIL Board of Administrations

I sort through the papers until I find the invitation.  I sign it without hesitation and place it in my bag, along with the brochure and map of the academy.  I’ll mail those tomorrow.  The rest of the papers, I toss into the cardboard box in the closet without reading them.

I study the short introduction letter once more before setting it inside the nightstand drawer, beside the tattered photos that I’ve kept for so long. 

The photos that I confront and inspect night after night.  The photos bordered with fingerprints because I’ve shuffled them through my hands so many times.  The photos with frayed edges that supposedly carry the answers to my ambiguous past, but do nothing other make me wonder about my future.

Tonight, I’m too worn-out to look through the pictures again, so I close the drawer.  Six small steps take me to the writing desk across the room, where I sit and pull out a pen and a scruffy journal .

April 8, 2013: Received acceptance letter. Send reply tomorrow. The studio was sweltering today but arm is healing.  Tired.

I step away from the desk toward the bathroom for a shower, but then I find myself doing something that I felt was happening more often; leaving something behind but going back at the last minute. I turn around and pick up the pen again as I scribble down the last few words.

Out of matches.