Note: We are all simply
of a larger thought.
Sometimes the words
that I find falling out
of my mouth aren’t the
words that I was thinking
aren’t what I meant to
say and I’m not quite/ Perhaps I never opened my mouth.
sure where they came/ Perhaps it wasn’t I who spoke.
from or why they came
out just then or really
what they mean but
know that they needed
to be said and know
that they needed to be
heard and I know they
are the recycled
thoughts of something/ Perhaps it was he or she or you or I or
bigger than myself./ maybe that greater power that everyone keeps going on about, perhaps I never meant to say a thing, and I am just here as a mouthpiece, a simple mouthpiece that may or may not have a place in this conversation. I may not have a place in this conversation. I may never have even been included in this conversation.
to a boy beneath the bridge, beside the railroad tracks, where I used to smoke cigarettes between classes. He was shaking a can of spray paint and the large, loopy letters in front of him spelled “SARS”. I asked him, this boy, shrouded by the hood of a black sweatshirt, hidden in self-made shadow, standing beneath a bridge beside the railroad tracks, I asked this boy why he was here. Why? I asked, why SARS? He turned to me, slow, I remember he had olive skin and hazel eyes, he was all sorts of green, he turned to me, real slow, and told me that this was his message and this is the only way I would see it, and it was important that I did. I told him that he wasn’t supposed to be spray painting there, that his message made no sense, and that if he got caught they’d arrest him for defacing railroad property. And he just smiled. He just
smiled and asked me, if not here then where? Where would you see it?
He told me the most important messages are in unauthorized spaces.
is simple existence.
I used to believe that
God placed me on this
Earth for a very specific
reason. Then Santa Claus
died. Metaphorically, of
course. One day, in third
grade, a boy I had a crush/ Perhaps this boy never existed.
on told me Santa didn’t/ Perhaps this interaction never happened
exist. I ran home to my
mother, knowing she
would never lie to me.
I discovered that truth
was a variable thought that
served development. I didn’t resent this, however,
because this is also the/ And perhaps the control was within my
day I took reign of/ hands the entire time. In which case, the
my own existence./ purpose of this story is more important
than its truth. And perhaps the truth is merely a device we or you or I or they employ in order to question. In which case, it is more important to know the question than it is to know the truth, for it’s simple to create our own sensible answers, but they do not relate to the reality of the incoherence of our wonder.
NO into his face, in the dark and out of the spots of streetlights while he waved a knife in my face. He turned and ran, my phone in his hand, and I tried to chase him, for three blocks I tried to chase him as he quickly gained distance. And the people on the street just stared at me as I collapsed to my knees and screamed at the sky, unintelligible, animal and tired I punched the sidewalk until my hand bled and when that didn’t work I stood and kicked the building facade until my toes crunched and sat with my back to the wall and cried. Privilege is the illusion of safety; it is the illusion of inexistent rights, for the right of safety is a manmade construct in a world that does not run by manmade laws. The world is an atmosphere of chaos that we continually make efforts towards putting reason to, with no justification, nor sensible outcome to this task. So I sat. I sat
on the street and cried as the inconsistencies of thought as they related to reality became clearer.
“The mind, when it reaches its limits, must make a judgment and choose its conclusions.” *
And this night I rejected reason and accepted the world as it was.
*Quote by Albert Camus