Young Writers Society

Doctors can detect neurological disorders by the way we grab for things.
Having a grasp reflex, like a child, can often indicate a tumor.
But, I'm a grabber.
I grab the warm brown specks of dust at the beach.
I hold the sand in my hand even though I know it will fall out. I like how it feels as it exits my hands--reminding me that like life, we can only hold on for so long.
So, I grab and I grab.
For ambition, for grades, for that job, for the just right apartment and the perfect partner.
For your right breast, like the pledge of allegiance, it's too soon, but you don't say anything.
For your last name.
And just like that another chance encounter fades as we meet the settled darkness and the subway delays.
Alone on the empty cars I grasp for a sense of belonging, an impossible task.
Asking for understanding while everyone's asleep--contemplating the meaning of life at a time that doesn't exist to sleepers and shopkeepers and all who perform service for Father Time.
And so, I grasp for myself, buried in cumulus clouds of consciousness, hoping for some strength in the morning with the hangover of living.