Jul 2011
I wake up.
New York.
It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin internal frostbite. One man tells me to go back to bed, it’s too early. I slowly, silently, drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
Havana, Cuba.
It is now summer. I see a boy. He looks confused. I offer him help. Without a word he turns around and scurries off down the alley into a small wooden shack, like a mouse, assuming everyone is the sinister cat that is out to feast upon his flesh, running into his safe haven, his hole in the wall. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Sicily, Italy.
It is now spring. One bird catches my attention. A dove, flying through the channels, under the bridges, over the buildings. It swoops through almost all of Sicily, and then hovers over the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea as it makes its great escape, the wind scraping up against its delicate white feathers, applying pressure to its already soaring wings. The dove heads back for land, to its nest. It hits a tree. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Melbourne, Australia.
It is now autumn. I see one woman. She tells me her name, although I could not make it out with such a rich, thick accent. But, what are names? They aren’t identity. You strip someone of a name and they are still unique. It’s not the name that defines a person, it’s what they make of it. Another woman catches my eye. She doesn’t tell me her name, but instead shows me around town. We begin to talk when all of a sudden I drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
New York.
It is winter. It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin to develop internal frostbite. One woman informs me that I’m late for work. I notice an accent. I ask her where she’s from. She replies,
“Melbourne, Australia.”
New York.
It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin internal frostbite. One man tells me to go back to bed, it’s too early. I slowly, silently, drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
Havana, Cuba.
It is now summer. I see a boy. He looks confused. I offer him help. Without a word he turns around and scurries off down the alley into a small wooden shack, like a mouse, assuming everyone is the sinister cat that is out to feast upon his flesh, running into his safe haven, his hole in the wall. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Sicily, Italy.
It is now spring. One bird catches my attention. A dove, flying through the channels, under the bridges, over the buildings. It swoops through almost all of Sicily, and then hovers over the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea as it makes its great escape, the wind scraping up against its delicate white feathers, applying pressure to its already soaring wings. The dove heads back for land, to its nest. It hits a tree. I go back to bed.
I wake up.
Melbourne, Australia.
It is now autumn. I see one woman. She tells me her name, although I could not make it out with such a rich, thick accent. But, what are names? They aren’t identity. You strip someone of a name and they are still unique. It’s not the name that defines a person, it’s what they make of it. Another woman catches my eye. She doesn’t tell me her name, but instead shows me around town. We begin to talk when all of a sudden I drift off into a doze.
I wake up.
New York.
It is winter. It’s cold enough to where my body succumbs to the cool sensation sweeping it externally, but not too bitter to where I begin to develop internal frostbite. One woman informs me that I’m late for work. I notice an accent. I ask her where she’s from. She replies,
“Melbourne, Australia.”
