HAUNTED - Chapter 1 (A short, creative non-fiction series of events)

HAUNTED

All the events depicted in this are VERY true.

Chapter 1: Bloody Mary

            1997, in the dungeon of an old Lutheran church, four boys huddled in a dark corner of the bathroom, and I was one of them. It was early morning, sometime in the weekday. We were all just little boys then—second graders. We all attended this church/school, which lasted from pre-k to eighth grade.

            The four of us—Zach Carley, Devin Burnside, Matt Francis, and myself—slipped out of the early morning Day Care called Child Watch and snuck ourselves through the dark, unlit kitchen into the bathroom. Mind you, going in through the kitchen and bathroom without permission was extremely forbidden. (“OFF LIMITS WITHOUT ASKING FIRST.”) That was surely to earn you a time-out, a slap on the wrist, or worse… time in the principle’s office.
            It was rather easy for us to slip out since one lady had to keep an eye on about 50 kids. So when four boys disappeared from a table chock full of kids playing Domino Rally, ducking behind the kitchen counter, and crawling their way into the bathroom, it was like no one disappeared. Well, at least not yet. Hopefully.

            The memory is feint, but I know I was scared. That much I can remember…or am willing to recall.

            “Come on, Kevin, don’t be such a wuss,” snickered the four-eyed, shaggy, dark brown hair, Zach Carley. “It’s only just a stupid myth.”

            “All right, fine. But don’t tell my mommy about this. She’ll make me count to over 500 on the stupid steps again if she finds out. Last time I was there for over an hour.” They all snickered at this, and I shrugged my shoulders oblivious to why they were laughing.
            Devin Burnside – a brown haired, brown-eyed, one-month-younger-than-me (to the date) boy – extinguished the light. I squished my way closer to them, huddling in their personal space, not caring about the Kevin-likes-men comment I’d soon get after that. I didn’t care; I was terrified. We all were.
            It felt like that moment where you’re sitting in your room in the middle of night, terrified of the raging storm that’s keeping you awake. The thunder’s roaring, the raindrops are pelting your window, and the lightning keeps cutting through the darkness with bright bolts of electricity. So you turn on your lamp to feel safe, but then the power goes out. And it’s not just that vivid darkness creeping over your eyes that scares you. It’s that noise the power makes when it turns off. The shutting down of every conscious perception of safety. That’s the noise I heard when Devin flicked the switch off. The powering down of my heart.

            Matt Francis – the light brown, dim-witted (when it came to school) ladies man even as a boy – was the leader of our expedition, this crucial crusade. Matt, the eldest of the four of us, told us briefly what we were supposed to do. He stood to my right, Zach to my left, and Devin to his left. My pupils were starting to adjust; it had been well over a minute. We were so close to the mirror that our noses were almost touching the glass and our breath was fogging it up.
            “Y-you guys ready?” Matt asked loudly, trying to be as stern as possible failing to hide the fear in his shaky voice. It had been two minutes.

            “Yes,” we responded simultaneously.

            “Okay, then. On the count of three we will begin.” My heart was starting to pound recklessly at this point. I could feel myself starting to shake, convulsing in a fear-elapsed panic.

            “One.” Shiver down my spine.

            “Two.” Sweat dripping from my brow.

            “Three.” Gulp.

            At the top of our lungs we all bellowed in unison, “BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY!” We chanted, screamed about 20 times. And that’s when things got real…

* * *

            I’m a little boy. I’m a second grader. My neighbor, Josh Zivny – whom is one year older – is over with his dog, Annie. She’s a beautiful golden retriever. Adam – my 13 month younger brother – and Josh and I are all sitting in my family room looking out at the deck. The screen door is open and our feet are hanging out of it, planted on the polished wood. The stars and moon are hidden behind the dark, grey clouds. It’s blacker than black outside. Darker than dark.
            Josh is over because his parents and my parents are all out doing something. So us three are stuck here dog watching. Alone.
            The only light on in the house is coming from the Television to our left. It’s at a very dim-lit brightness and a low volume. The silence is quite deafening, to be honest. We’re all talking in hushed whispers as if we’re trying to listen. As if something is listening to us.
            We hear a rustle in the distance. Even the trees are shivering. The TV starts to flicker off, then on, then off again. For a moment we’re completely consumed in darkness. It turns on again. We all freak out, shivering out of our skin with bone-rattling terror. Josh, still sitting next to us, asks where Annie went. I didn’t even notice she disappeared.
            “Annie!” we all call out. No reply. We call her name again. Josh walks out of the room into the other dark corners of the house looking for her.
            “There she is!” I manage to gasp out, jabbing out my index finger toward a silhouette of a dog. She is walking up the steps of the deck, staring deathly at me in the eyes. “Josh, she’s out here.” I step out into the night, feeling a sudden chill run down my spine. Goosebumps. The lurking darkness fiends it’s way into blue eyes, into my soul.

            I step forward reaching my hand out toward Annie. But something’s wrong about her… different. It’s her, definitely her. The same shaggy, golden brown hair. The same long tongue hanging from her mouth. But there is something about her eyes that throws me off guard.
            “Annie, come here.” She doesn’t budge. I step closer. She remains petrified, frozen in her tracks. I approach closer now, inching my way forward. My hand is out, whether to pet her or for my own protection, I know not.
            “GRRRR!” She starts growling viciously. I take one step back, remembering my fear of dogs.
            “Josh, come get your dog!” I yell now, scared and angry. The boyish me just wants to run away and never look back…or to shoot the damn dog.
            “What are you talking about?” Josh’s voice appears feint, muffled by the walls of the house. He must be in a different room. He continues, his voice getting loud and closer, “Annie is right here, Kev…” His sentence cuts off as he appears at the doorway looking out at this dog. Annie, calm and reverent, is at his feet.
            RUFF. RUFF. RUFF. Annie starts barking wildly. Fear erupts my eyes, my heart shattering to fragments. I turn back around to face my foe.
            The eyes. Those damn eyes are red. She growls again, this time in my face, barking back at Annie. I could see her teeth now. Sharp razors. And then I see her.
            A little girl. White dress; dark, curly black hair. Pale skin, paler than the moonlight. About 10 years old. She has black eyes. She is grinning, petting the replica. A damn hellhound. There is menace in her little black eyes.
            The hellhound barks this time louder. I notice now the distinct difference between the two. The size – twice of Annie’s; the smell – of death, decay. She’s a monster, salivating with a hungry look in her eyes. This time, shining her razor-sharp pearly whites at me, she begins to bite down deep, piercing into my flesh. The little girl laughs as a blood-curling scream evokes from my lungs.
            Blood is splattering, staining the mouth of the beast. I’m screaming bloody murder, and I can feel my bones crunching, breaking. My limbs are being ripped out, licked clean. My screams echo through the night.
           

* * *

Catch The Golden Bug

Catch the golden bug
that floats in your eyes, spinning
webs throughout your mind

Can you see the sun
cascading off of the lake,
setting in your heart?

We all see beauty
within that vibrant color
of the brand new night

Can you see what I
see? Oh dear goddess of love,
this night is now ours

The blue moon rises
full in shape and the color
of your pretty dress

And flies of fire
burn bulbs of orange and yellow
and gold in our hands

Let us set them free
so Night may capture one, and
catch the golden bug.

"Good Fences Make Good Neighbors"

I want you to do something. Something that you probably haven’t done in a long, long time. Maybe it’s something you haven’t even had time to do. Or choose not to do. But let me tell you, this certain “something” is definitely something to take note of, to acknowledge:
            think back to when you were still a little lad, full of youth, innocent, carefree. Do you remember those times at all? Pull open the curtains of your memory and break down the walls of your past. Peel away the scabs and think back. Do you remember (can you even remember, ya old farts?)? Think back to when your youth was a charismatic as success is to you now. Nothing could bring you down. Nothing. And when something did, you got right back up. You dusted off your shoulders [because, you know, you were a pimp even back then] and put on a band-aid and kept on running. You were an adventurer, a carefree spirit. You were a fighter, a warrior. Stronger than you are now or will ever be. You know why? Because of innocence, of ignorance. Never mind the cuts, the scrapes, and blood that adorned your flesh.
            Life itself was liberating. You were free, and you didn’t even know it. There was absolutely nothing you had to worry about. Well, besides sneaking a piece of candy or a cookie before dinner and NOT getting caught. (Like that one time when you* were four and found Smarties on the counter. So you grabbed it and swooped yourself underneath the table in hopes that no one would find you. Because back then, when you hid underneath the table, the world around you was hidden from your view. Therefore, in your mind, the world’s view of you was hidden. Under that table you were a recluse. It was you, the table, and those Smarties. So you hid, and poured all of those Smarties into your mouth. Not one by one, but full on shoved them down your throat. Until your dad walked past and asked what you were doing under there. And do you remember your response? You sat there, gawking innocently, chewing and replied, “Nomphim.” And even though your dad sold you out, it was all right. Sure, you had to sit in time out and count to 300, but that was all right. You had achieved what you wanted to do! You had consumed those Smarties before dinner, and neither your father nor your mother could take that away from you. You had won. Beat the system. Game. Set. Match.)
            Now think to those summer days and nights that you so desperately clung on to as a kid. Rain nor shine stopped you from living your summer outdoors. Remember all those times? Playing kickball on the street with your entire neighborhood. Backyard baseball. Playing army and cops and robbers and hide-n-go-seek. Back then there were no cliques and groups. It was just the summer, your friends, and the outdoors. Everything was how it should have been. It was actually a reward to stay out late with your friends and catch lightning bugs, or have bonfires, or run around your yard like a lunatic. When your mom called you in you would beg for ten more minutes, just ten more minutes. And maybe, every now and then, she would abide. Because, after all, she was in love - unconditionally - with you and your innocence. So you would run around the block. You would shoot up some hoops. You would play some baseball. You would play kickball. You would even play those old school games lit Tag, Red Rover, etc. You would lay on the grass and stare up at the clouds, saying what each one looked like. And when night swung around you would collect the fireflies in jars and have bonfires and s’mores. With all of your neighbors. Because neighborhoods were neighborhoods back then. Not strangerhoods. Neighbors were neighbors, not strangers. People were intimate with one another. Not attached to their phones, computers, and videogames. Do you remember that at all?
            As a kid you couldn’t escape the outdoors except when it rained. Scratch that. Except when it stormed, and even then you would pull up a lawn chair and sit in the garage and watch with your neighbor who you’ve known your entire life. You would take turns commentating on the storm like you were weathermen, like you were Dick Goddard or something. Just a really, really young version of Dick Goddard. [I wonder if he can even remember back this far?]
            There were exceptions, of course, when you would be inside. Like when that one kid down the street—whom you didn’t like, whom irked you for some, strange reason—wanted to hang with you and your brother. So you and your brother had a certain process that you set up. A plan. Whenever he showed up, your brother would take turns switching off, where one of you would go inside very quickly and come back out within seconds saying, “Hey, we can’t hang out right now because our mom is calling us in for dinner.” You would say that even at two in the afternoon. Of course, that neighbor surprisingly never caught on, which was good. But for the most part, you were always outside. Computer games could wait. Television could wait. It was all about the neighborhood, the weather, and the good old times. The summer was yours.
            Now I wanted you to do something else. Pull open the curtains and what do you see?

 Nothing. No kids playing kickball. No kids shooting hoops. No kids biking. In fact, there is rarely any kids at all. Everyone is inside. Eating. Consuming not just Smarties, but cookies, and chips, and fast food. People are inside texting. People are inside playing video games. Kids are addicted to XBOX. Their social lives revolve around XBOX LIVE. There is no more outdoor activities. Bonfires are low in count. Barbeques and Block Parties are non-existent. Everyone is scare of each other. Scared to know their own neighbor. There was a time when everyone used to know each other. But now you probably don’t even recognize half of the people that live on your street. Neighbors are now strangers. Kids are no longer kids, but lazy, spoiled brats.
            Why is this? Let me know your thoughts. Give me some insight on this tragedy. Let me know why this is even acceptable. Why aren’t parents limiting video game play anymore? Why aren’t kids begging to be outside more? Why do kids spend most of their time playing video games? Don’t they know they can get exactly what they get out of a video game AND more by reading a book outdoors? Who cares if you have ADD or ADHD. I have ADHD/ADD. That’s no excuse.
               I wish I was still a kid sometimes. Why can't kids be kids? Why can't they go outside and enjoy their lives? KIDS, this is for you (of all ages), get off of your butts and go live your life! You were blessed with two legs and feet, so use those gifts! Before it's too late. Soon enough you will be an adult and won't have time to go outside. Stop lazying it up inside when you can be outside having just as much fun, except that it will be healthier. Go live your life!

            Let me know some of your thoughts on this. Thanks for reading.

____________________________________________________________________________
* - the subject YOU here represents everyone in general (you and me).

Call Me When You Wake Up From Your Dream [lyrics to a song I wrote for my band]

Sleeping in a shadow of doubt
My mind unravels these scenes
I’ve traveled; It’s been days of this drought
The garden of my soul is black not green
And darling can’t you see?
What it is you are doing to me
You’re salting my wounds and stripping me open
The bridges are burned and my heart is broken

You’re tearing me apart at the seams
And I’m screaming my heart of for the means
to make it work, but you won’t abide
Is it safe to say it’s hard to make it through the night?

Breathing hard, but hardly breathing
My friends knew you’d be leaving
They warned as you scorned all my dreams
But I wouldn’t and I couldn’t get myself to believe
Now they’re here and you’re not
All your promises will rot
but I’ll never be destroyed by what you did
Because I’ve got my friends to help me through this

You’re tearing me apart at the seams
And I’m screaming my heart of for the means
to make it work, but you won’t abide
Is it safe to say it’s hard to make it through the night?

But I’ll survive, I will survive
My friends are here and I feel alive
Because they know what love is
And that’s something that you’ll never know

Lucid Dreaming (Revised)

turn off the lamp so i
may be swallowed by the darkness
and consumed by the
creative creatures of my consciousness
in a thousand
images of yesterday’s tomorrow

turn the lamp on in my mind

so i may see visions

of love and peace and a better future

ignite the backyard-barbeque-
cookout-campfire as the blue
horizon of my eyes is filled
with soot and spiraling
smoke in my mind

because after all i’m a
writer with dancing ink
on creativity’s playground

swinging on the swing-set

of my soul

i dream of things i want to dream

not what grandma or grandpa
or mom or dad tell me to

i dream of a tree with

golden branches and emerald green

leaves towering above

the cotton-ball clouds

pointing towards the heavens

i dream of tomorrow

and yesterday, but most

importantly, i dream

of today 

Fork, Spoon, or Knife?

Scene I: The Witch

I was walking through
the snowy gardens of my dreams

when a witch—like the cliché,

Hollywood kind of witch:

puke-green face, long pointy

nose, face full of  frightening
warts, and decaying teeth
rotting in their coffin suppressed
by her thin lips—said to me:

“Brewed and boiled
with your fears and turmoil

I extract from this black pot
a word so little that means a lot

you hide in the silhouette

until shadows surround you whole,

and when you meet the creature Death

that is when he’ll take your soul…

“If given the chance to end the
life of your lover, what would you
use: a fork, spoon, or knife?” The relentless 

screech of her voice echoed in my mind, 

vibrating the fear out of its depths, sending

it slivering through my bloodstream into my

pulsing heart. Beating. Like. Breakdowns.

Baffled by the belligerence

of the question, and terrified of her

grotesque presence before me, I screamed

(while bolting forward): “I would rather take
my own life before ending that of my lover.”

She smiled with a terrible grin from

ear to ear, and she stepped aside as I ran

into the scenery before me:

darkness, woods deep in pine

and oak, and the snow

stained with crimson.

Scene II: The Demon

Hours had passed by since

my encounter with the witch,

when I felt the darkness thicken

around my soul and the very presence
of something supernatural, something
dark and wicked—I could feel it.

There, before me was a demon. Black
wings, black eyes, red flesh, and sharp
razor-like talons—he smiled like the dead.

I shivered as he began to speak
with a low grumbling grunt:

“My fine young lad answer me 

a question if you’d like to proceed
what has no color at all,

but yet is darker than greed?...

“If you’d like to proceed on with your life,
you must answer this question correctly, if you 

do not I shall consume your flesh and steal your 

soul and accompany it to the greatest pits of 

Hell: if given the chance to end the

life of your lover, what would you use:

a fork, spoon, or knife?”

I looked at the demon,

with fear shading my eyes

a different tint, fretting for my life

and my soul, and I said persistently:

“Maybe anger will cloud my
better judgment and pierce with talons

at my true nature, but never will I end the life

of my lover. I would gladly take my own before

the thought even crossed my mind.”

The demon once destructive,

looked distraught and depressed; taking

in a heavy sigh, he moved aside as the scenery

unraveled itself before my blue eyes:

Scene III: Death

Mountains, smoking in the background. Snow at 

the tips, but dry, barren land surrounding. A 

desert with snow? Grey skies, forecast of rain

and thunder. The what-were plants, were now 

rotting corpses—silhouettes of their former selves. 

I walked forward following the path

knowing not where it would lead, but still

knowing where it would end up. I could feel it 

near. The end. My heart was racing its final
lap, ticking the last minutes away.

And there he was, mountainous. A slender giant 

towering above the mountains themselves. He 

was hooded, clothed in a dark cloak with a giant 

scythe held in his fleshless, bony hands. I gulped 

a grimace and cowered before him. He leaned 

over to match my height and whispered in a 

loud, thundery voice:

“Some may die young and all

but it’s to those who die with no meaning at all

so this I say you, young lad

have you made meaning of your life you’ve had”

He stood up, towering again over me and 

screamed as lightning bolted out around him

from the heavens: “THERE IS ONLY ONE 

WAY OUT OF THIS, AND THAT IS IF YOU 

END THE LIFE OF YOUR LOVER, SO I ASK 

YOU THIS:

“If given the chance to end the life

of your lover, what would you use:

a fork, spoon, or knife?”

“Nothing,” I responded looking up with terror, “I 

would rather die a thousand deaths than kill a 

lover.”

“You blind fool. Once you awaken your destiny 

will so too, but do not turn around and look at 

your past, because you will turn to salt.” He 

brought down the scythe

unto my neck and I fell into a darkness that felt 

like years. Weeks. Months. Days.

Scene IV: Heaven and Hell

A path, the same one I had been walking all 

along but more appealing, aligned with golden 

bricks, leading to something bright, hidden

by fog and smoke and clouds. Something hidden 

from my eyes, and my eyes alone.

I proceeded on, taking in the beauty around

me, and I noticed each golden brick had

a date and a phrase engraved upon it:

my name

and something I did

both dark and immoral,

both greedy and lustful,

and every heart I ever broke

every person I ever offended.

Names of people who I have

destroyed with my twisted tongue

and wicked ways.

And right there the beauty of

the bricks immediately died.

The scenery that was of golden rivers

and beautiful, brown trees with

emerald green leaves that dotted the

branches like stars in the sky, died. Burned. 

Rotted. Turned to corpses. The sun faded behind 

clouds, and fire ignited everything around me.

In the flames I saw flashes of my

past, scenes of my darkness be revealed:

Things I wanted to keep hidden from everyone. 

From myself. From God. I stopped walking

and fell to my knees, cursing myself and lack of 

individuality from the rest of the world,

lack of respect, lack of sanctification,

lack of love.

I noticed then that I was bare,

clothed in nothing but the bare flesh I was born

into. I felt vulnerable.

Scene V: GOD

A bright light hovered before

me with the silhouette of a man, and said with

the most beautiful and mighty voice:

“Do not be afraid.” But I was

afraid. I was ashamed—naked like Adam in the 

Garden of Eden, but in the

garden of my own soul. And the voice said:

“I am God. Three in one. The Holy Trinity.

I created you.” I looked at Him,

His faceless beauty, still separated by the 

silhouette, and could see both tears and a smile.

“My son,” He said, “if given the chance

to end the life of a lover, what would

you use: a fork, spoon, or knife?”

I sat there, moments trembling

through thoughts. All romantic, poetic,

and tragic, and smiled with quivering lips at

God, whom I’ve never truly seen.

“Death marks the beginning

of eternity,” I began, “but it is up to us

what eternity we choose for ourselves

to live. So God, I say this: for my

entire life my lover has not been some

concrete humanoid being, but rather the darkness

within humanity, within myself. I am married

to sin…” I could see the smile more clearly

now as I began to answer his question. He laid 

out the utensils before me:
a fork, spoon, and knife.

“In order to find my true lover,

I must destroy my old lover. I must kill myself.

I choose all three. With the knife I will cut off 

my tongue and my left hand, with the spoon I 

will gouge out my eyes, and with the fork I

will dig out my ears.”

God watched as I did this as blood soaked the 

golden path of my past with crimson. But it 

wasn’t my blood. It was God’s. He was bleeding 

onto my golden bricks, removing the writing 

with his blood and tears.

Scene VI: Resurrection

I woke up the next morning at my house,

in my room, on my own soft bed. I had two ears. 

Two eyes. Two hands. One Tongue. My legs 

were sore, but everything was fine. Everything 

was golden. Right next to my bed were three 

golden objects: a fork, a spoon, and a knife.

Inspiration

I need to be honest with everyone. I haven't sat down and actually wrote anything in a long time. Sure, I have wrote a poem here or there, but I haven't sat down and just written for hours.

All of you writers, I know you know exactly what I am talking about. Where you have an amazing idea. where you grab a black pen and a notebook and just sit under the stars or under a desk lamp. Where you just scribble out your thoughts, some in endless myriads of ideas, and others just complete garbage. The point though is you spend hours writing. It's the kind of writing where you don't take a break to get food or a drink. It's the kind of writing where you are only focused on your pen and paper. Never mind the sound of the laughter on the street, or the feel of the warm of the summer night/day. You don't care about that, at least not at this point. All you want to do is write. There is no other worry on your mind.
Let me be completely honest, it's been maybe over two years since I have done this. I miss it so much. I have fallen into this certain stupor where being lazy just sounds plain right awesome. But no, not anymore. It is time to fall back into my old ways and write again. Actually write. Not just make an idea and never press on with it. Not just write poetry and not do anything with it. I am going to start spending hours upon hours writing.
I have an idea for a novel, and I have been working with the idea lately. I am not going to go into detail but I want to make this a trilogy. After I am done with that novel, or maybe during the process of writing that, I have an idea for two novellas. One being a horror story, already written. I am just going to re-write  it completely -- strip it bare and naked, revising, adding stronger skin and bone. The second one being a what if novella based off a tragedy that has recently befallen my mother. Except it will be a fiction, just with some nonfiction aspect.
I plan on writing every night. If I don't write every night I have to write for an extra hour the next day, this is how I am going to get back into writing again. Hopefully I write for over an hour a day anyways, I mean because of college it is rather hard and time consuming, but writing is my passion and hopefully my future. (Never mind these grammatical errors... there are such things as editors).

I must thank my new friend/ writer acquaintance Lake Lopez for teaching me a lesson tonight. To always write every day, especially on days when the words aren't flowing. Also, his in-progress book Sinister has helped me understand not only AMAZING story-writing, but character development, themes, and certain ways to write things. So thank you, Lake.
If you would like to check out his work, this is his website: http://lakelopezonline.com
He has amazing work on that website, like his in-progress novel Sinister. (I am only on chapter 8 right now. Amazing!)

I would also like to take the time to thank my girl friend, Brittany Kline. Darling, tomorrow is our one month and to be honest it feels like our one year. Why do you think every time you say "Kevin, what's tomorrow," I always reply with, "Our one year." or "12 month." You have been the biggest source of inspiration in my life in a long time. The fact that you are a writer and a musician really makes my mouth salivate. You are a brilliant writer and I can't wait until you get feedback from other people about your writing. You have a unique style, a creative manner, and a brilliant way of wording things. I love the way you write. Brittany, you just are all together amazing. You have really made me super inspired, I just wish you knew how amazing you were at writing.
I'd encourage... no I don't just encourage, but I would appreciate if all of you who follow my blog check hers out. She just started writing hers so there are little entries, but as you will see from her couple of entries, she has a brilliant writing form. You will love it. So check it out and comment on it.
http://www.brittkline.blogspot.com/

Also, just because I am going to start writing every day does not mean I will be writing a blog a day. That would be too crazy. I like the 1-3 times a week. I will though be working on my novel and novella's everyday. I am ready to kick apathy in the ass and move on with my life. Hopefully all of you learn a lesson from this and stop sitting around doing nothing. Go make something of yourselves. We are all called out to be something greater than what we could imagine.

I remember something my 8th grade teacher Mr. Jones told the class once: "Everyone is capable of writing a novel."
So write a novel, and if you don't like writing, then draw or paint. If you aren't artistic then take up a sport or music or invent something. Don't sit around thinking you suck at life. We are all called to be something great.

I'll leave you with this quote from Tom Delonge, the lead singer of Blink-182 and Angels&Airwaves:

"Whatever you picture yourself doing [in life] can and will happen, you just have to have an enormous amount of faith in yourself and the world around you."