On January 9 I dreamed of Armageddon. When I woke up at 3 A.M., God sent me to my knees.
Every day I am being revived. You can inject every poison of this world into your veins to stop hurt but it only starts the bleeding. From every worldly outlet comes consequence, ones that can pluck us out of existence more easily than thought. As much as I hate the to and fro of my emotions, the process is liberating me. I want to go higher.
If it were possible to experience almost all your “firsts” in one summer, I am sure I came damn close. And now that I sit in an almost all-beige room scribbling, thinking, decorating with all-beige, Brownbearbrownbearwhatdoyou see, and earthly tones, I am provoked to reminisce. I mean, does it truly matter what happened? Sometimes I don’t remember how I got here. And don’t care.
Between the ages of 10-19, the only years I remember, I chose what life I wanted.
Future, I mean. Is it even possible to go a day without thinking the past or the future? Try it.
Every single day of those nine years I deviated or came face to face with that life. But never stopped to realize what I was doing. Not consciousness though, just being awake. I’m awake now- only to what disrupts sleep. I dream while being awake and sleep when things bother me… it’s simply passivity. Not lacking energy, just lacking the need to express unless provoked.
It often feels as thought I am living the greatest hell there is on Earth. We don’t ask to be born into our lives blah blah blah okay. I am absolutely fine where I am. Although I can’t control the majority of what happens to me, I wonder if people feel they have control or whether we’re both in the same predicament. We claim we’re so much alike as human beings, but when we put it in perspective, we share little common ground. How is it that we cannot simultaneously sympathize, empathize, and cease other people’s pain. To understand someone’s thoughts and feelings and, if we want to express similarly, we can’t. Why must we tamper with one another, push limits, hurt. So I’m no longer numb, just passive in most things. If I don’t ask this out loud, it’s not necessary to. It’ll still be swimming in my head. Be open like a book. And hit me with your hardest blow. I’ll take it. I’m still thinking, why would you?
He told me his trunks were too big and demonstrated so by pulling the front end as far in front of him as he could. I tied the string together behind him, gave him a little tail. He never said thank you but always loved running to me, into the pool, saying “Can I please do it again, Soozan?”
And I put a bland band aid on his Batman one, which he refused to take off. He told me he could hold his breath underwater for 15 seconds. I told him I’ve been holding mine forever.
He squeals when I pull him on the noodle- the orange one, because I tell him it’s the train that will take him wherever he wants. He pleads for me to toss and turn him like a water rocket, without his life vest.
And sometimes when you talk to him, he doesn’t respond or maybe even ignores you. He stares straight, like he knows what goes on before he can understand what any of it means. The irony of it, Shy Low. It doesn’t seem to matter that his father won MVP for the Super Bowl XX or has eleven illegitimate children. He remains innocent. Is it even possible to- when everything around you is dying? yes.