The Evening

I can and have plotted out my life so far. I drew a time-line, scribbles of notes everywhere, taking account of the moments I can’t forget. When I start thinking about my journey, it all hits me at once- the pain/love/peace/torture/bliss.. If it’s on paper, freshly drained from my fingers, I can see that this moment led into that one and so on..but organizing memories is essentially trying to make life linear, which is not the way it feels. Einstein said, “The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” It feels as if I’m watching a film..or even browsing through the Netflix of my existence. I don’t always feel like digging up a dramatic coming of age story, but I know that part of releasing is remembering. It’s tedious work finding the old wounds and cleaning them out, but when I get to the end of a traumatic memory, and I feel like I can wear the scar with pride, as a notch of survival..well, that’s what keeps me coming back..that and it also feels like more of a duty than an option to tell my story. To quote Einstein yet again, “Human beings, in their thinking, feeling, and acting are not free, but are as causally bound as the stars in their motions.”

The end of January 2017 marks 10 years since my “odyssey”. The story has escaped my lips many times, and though the ears were eager and willing, details fall to the floor. The smell of my mother’s hair product heated by the blow-dryer as I ran for the front sister’s face calmly waiting to finish a game of checkers that’s been in limbo for a decade.. These moments, pieces of my brain I wish I could cut out, have taken residence in my soul. They tear holes in my chest and beg to be let go.

Time bends broken bones, til they wrap around your throat and snap around your fingers. This is a story bout the three of us down by the water and the tide keeps rising. This world is burning and I’m terrified. I just need a little more time with you. -Aqualung

Last night I dreamed we were swimming into the ocean from the back of a sinking delivery truck. There was a cardboard box of flopping sharks in the back and I frantically tried to keep them inside, but it was hopeless. All I could do was swim like hell to shore. I woke up before I made it to the sand and before the sharks reached me.

I don’t feel inspired, I feel threatened. Those sharks are real, and just like the magnificent sandpaper-skinned beasts, they will destroy me if I let them. The water is turbulent, everyone else is swimming out to sea, the waves thrash with power from another world.

Like those hungry fish, I know it’s simply your nature to hunt, in your blood to feast on mine. This truth makes it harder to speak mine. I have seen through your eyes, seen the world label you as nothing but a monster because you have proven your potential to be. I can see the sadness in your eyes, witnessed time twist your face and turn it to granite..jagged formations growing into your cerebellum.

These nightmares that have followed me into waking life separate me from most of you. Your fleeing eyes tell me you don’t want to see. The sky is so much more lovely than the strings leading to the past. When I look up or close my eyes, all I see are the strings..the cords that tie me up. If you can’t bare to see me unravel, look away.


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