i see myself - unshaven and distraught, at peace with who i am and despaired by a world i saw coming but couldn't prepare for. i see myself - sitting in the old house, civil war ghosts whispering through the cracks in the dry red clay. sherman burned this town once and now i get to watch the sun do it again. i see myself - the hedges are overgrown and i never stopped smoking cigarettes. the shadows on the walls are mapped out, a mimicry of life in an empty heirloom. i see myself - head in my hands thinking about history. The Last Gilded Age. The Second Gilded Age. what good are comparisons if no one's left to draw them? how does the past make room in a world already strangled by its present? i choke back - the same addiction that made geraldine shoot herself. it occurs to me that i am probably the last person alive to remember geraldine ever existed. i think that's what drew me to history - i've always had the past living inside me. there's a whole family tree intertwined with my ribcage, like kudzu over tarred lungs. i fill my - flask with weedkiller. i inherit an open wound. i try to find my place in a history that no one will ever read.
so basically i've been thinking what the world's gonna be like when i'm an adult-adult. wouldn't recommend it.
I'm told the sky is blue. God is dead. Lead is heavier than cotton. I'm not convinced I know where the sky starts. You need proof, like a birth certificate, to be declared dead. Cotton and lead can both weigh a gram or a tonne. So, my conundrum... how do I write about what I know. My name is Francie. I have a birth certificate, and it's yellowing...fast. Whatever comes after this is pure speculation. However, our opinions are weighed With equations and laws. Laws. There's a thumb on the scales. Reason is subjective. Water is wet... warm... hard... vaporous... dry... I can write about death, while I'm alive, believing in it. My forehead is bleeding from pounding my lack of truths into verse For readers to think of the possible, for certain.
My hands above my head, I grasp for purpose, and pull the Sun to my chest.
Circles become arbitrary. Squares, the cousins of rectangles are discredited as man-made. That's why metaphors known as squares are seen as vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum. They are dotted lines dependent on right angles, left ashtray to explain anomalies.
So for order we justify lines. We contain music within them. Until, of course, the Holy Ghost is found. Because that strike against the canvas is thought to be premeditated.
But that isn't human nature. That isn't God. It will only become recorded notes on a page. It's retrospect. A future remembrance of the past. It's the Sun in your heart, knowing that containing that kind of energy is hazardous to your health.