#7

Where I come from.  Where I am, people don’t interact. People don’t socialize. Honestly, no body gives a damn. Here, people bump into each other. People crash. People build bridges on the rubble of their broken etiquette. Dovetailing on the back of their misplaced mores. So eager for contact we touch ourselves. So eager for connection, we weave webs that entangle. Then enslave. Then suffocate. But at least we are not alone.

God forbid we be forced to abide our own solitude.

Everywhere I am at is a party that doesn’t love me. Doesn’t love us. This cult-sway of revel doesn’t even hide its mask. Its shame doesn’t know its face, this grudging station of freight souls. In the smoke haze, eyes stare back like fading chalk on abandoned black boards. It would be pitiable if it wasn’t reflecting off a mirror I own.

It would be sad, poetic if I didn’t acknowledge the repressed violence here. That is why the words seem heavy, ominous. Is why its hard to see the veil beyond, that unsung heroic thing that’s slipping, crawling over every accomplice’s face. That thing that doesn’t stand in judgement. That bluntness that calls from the abyss, saying, “It’s okay. I’m a walking bag of contradictions, just like you.”

It would be harder to yearn the belonging. Easier because you recognize the futility. And them that offer it, that touch you, that allow you to touch them are like strangers you fuck at the airport, you’ll never get to see them again. They are leaving, even if you’re the one doing all the walking away.

Where I come from, every one has an abyss, a something that hangs over the fog of consciousness. And we don’t know what to do with it, so you crash hoping to shale it off, succeeding only in merging yours with theirs and now both of you haunted. Neither of you ghosts, just little children standing staring at your feet waiting in a silent clump, waiting for something to come along, something that recognizes your need to be judged, but does the opposite.
Something that sees you as the children no one prays for, so it holds you hostage, and waits.

And waits. And the ransom it asks grows within you slower than your own malignancy eats your soul. Then and only then, pitiable enough, everyone will scramble to touch you. 

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