Nov 2018
We dont get to choose how to exist on this rock. The sun cuts through us day by day as we sit alongside rapists and child molesters. As we hold hands with dictators and overlords.
Not everyone, but someone here today used to be something they arent proud of. Some of us are still that now.
I used to be a drug addict, now I weave light through brain cells and create images with sound.
I know what it means to be space now,
To be the ever expanding hands of my molester, scrambling for reincarnation.
To be white noise trying to regain control of the loose memories.
Those of us that fight the slow gnawing can not remember a day that isn't filled with the synaptic static of leftover memories. The **** that backed the toilet up.
I know what it's like to be the edge of the universe, to kiss the thin veneer of darkness as light becomes new to us.
I know what it's like.
But I wish I didnt.
I wish that memories could be pieced together, that like plastic surgery I could find a doctor with enough moral ambiguity in their heart who will take all the best shattered fragments of my childhood and turn them into the stain glass windows on a church.
And I don't even believe in that god.
“what god do you mean?!” My elders scream with contention, more worried that I may believe in something new than that I've lost my faith at all.
And I find myself asking as well…
With no recourse or reason or real answer in sight…
What god do I mean?
Carl Sagan said we all live here. On this mote of dust suspended in a sun beam. That we've all, from peasant to supreme leader, existed right here on this planet. Thousands of generations of us fighting to tip the balance of the universe in our favor.
So What god do I mean?...
What god looked out to all of us lowly mortals and saw our tears watering the crops?
What god was so moved by our small speck and us, the tiny motes of dust, that inhabit it's freckles?
Only my notebook, and it's pages sputtering whispers in to the wind.
As we all stood around it's dying corpse muttering passages from dead poets, hoping desperately to revive the past...I got my answer.
Not everyone, but someone here today used to be something they arent proud of. Some of us are still that now.
I used to be a drug addict, now I weave light through brain cells and create images with sound.
I know what it means to be space now,
To be the ever expanding hands of my molester, scrambling for reincarnation.
To be white noise trying to regain control of the loose memories.
Those of us that fight the slow gnawing can not remember a day that isn't filled with the synaptic static of leftover memories. The **** that backed the toilet up.
I know what it's like to be the edge of the universe, to kiss the thin veneer of darkness as light becomes new to us.
I know what it's like.
But I wish I didnt.
I wish that memories could be pieced together, that like plastic surgery I could find a doctor with enough moral ambiguity in their heart who will take all the best shattered fragments of my childhood and turn them into the stain glass windows on a church.
And I don't even believe in that god.
“what god do you mean?!” My elders scream with contention, more worried that I may believe in something new than that I've lost my faith at all.
And I find myself asking as well…
With no recourse or reason or real answer in sight…
What god do I mean?
Carl Sagan said we all live here. On this mote of dust suspended in a sun beam. That we've all, from peasant to supreme leader, existed right here on this planet. Thousands of generations of us fighting to tip the balance of the universe in our favor.
So What god do I mean?...
What god looked out to all of us lowly mortals and saw our tears watering the crops?
What god was so moved by our small speck and us, the tiny motes of dust, that inhabit it's freckles?
Only my notebook, and it's pages sputtering whispers in to the wind.
As we all stood around it's dying corpse muttering passages from dead poets, hoping desperately to revive the past...I got my answer.
