The hunger is the same, but I can’t muster the same
impending sense of doom. I could run
straight at it and still never come close. An ending at this point would be
nice. I used to crave invisibility. Now I know the beast will find me regardless,
but without teeth.
The people who are closest to me all use the same word:
accept. Not as advice, as
explanation. Somehow I am both of these people;
somehow I see both of them.
There used to be a chart.
I had it for a minute, but it was important so I threw it away
eventually. The chart was a circle with
arrows pointing helpfully. I think there
were on ramps and off ramps too, but I can’t exactly remember them, which is a
terribly ham-fisted metaphor, but totally true.
A beautiful sunset ruins a perfectly shitty day
I never take pictures
When I’m with other people
My internal logic dictates that shared memory
Precludes a need for proof of existence
Here I am alone, though, and my camera emerges
To capture proof that I existed in this moment
In the future my existence will only be implied
The actor unseen on the stage of memory
I deceive my future
The transitory nature of my mood defeated by
Capturing lasting beauty
Quickly close my eyes I can’t bear this I blink out of existence Pictures, videos. Two dimensional images to impose myself upon On a place that doesn’t exist On a place that was a lie But it wasn’t, I insist And I push myself forward And the pain is so real it burns from within And I can hear laughter And I can hear laughter I can see everyone but me I can see I can watch them interact with everyone but me They never touch me I never speak And my eyes burst open To reality darker and empty I shout desperately to justify myself. The judges, bored with my absorption, drifted away years ago Cant you see? No one gets me Everyone else is crazy not to think this way Everyone else is fooling themselves. Either way, the walls of the asylum divide us. I shut my eyes The doors to the asylum close.
Where I'm from is hard wood floors and the color burnt sienna
and people that can tell the difference between burnt sienna and brown.
Where I'm from is loud for good reasons
and full of sunshine. always the sunshine.
Where I'm from has long bike rides and kickball
and the certainty, the unyielding potent knowledge that the future was bright
Where I'm from is an impossible ideal so built up in my head that my life will never hope to compare. Where did my parents find all those friends? Where did they find money for vacations, bikes, my short but intense obsession with the spanish-american war? My prose fails me; fear rules.