I was walking home from work. My exhaustion was growing and so was the darkness. The lines of the city began to overwhelm me, stabbing my spirit like needles. Columns, pillars, streets, poles, steps, rails...Lines. Lines. Lines. Stab. Stab. Stab. Beat. Beat. Beat.
My heart gasped. Stopped. Gasped. Stopped. Gasped. Stopped.
What did panic look like? What did sadness look like?
What did panic feel like? What did sadness feel like?
We wake. We eat. We work. We sleep.
We break. We cheat. We hurt. We bleed.
We have. Enough. We laugh. We love.
What’s to need?
We have. It’s tough. We lack. We fuck.
Born to greed.
I remembered waking up in a tent. In a sleeping bag. In a realization. I saw your eyes open. The first words from your mouth asked me how I slept. That was when I realized how long it had been since I had woken up next to someone.
The lake. The mountains. The wind. The chill.
The fake. The counting. The sin. The kill.
The shake. The small things. The nonsense.
And I saw you under lamp light in between brick buildings. And I could tell you felt the lines too and the panic and the sadness. And you told me that our small window had been broken. And instead of a scene from a movie, we were just people. And you took out your gift not the way that you wanted to. And you gave me a kiss that said goodbye.
And when I told you I’d see you again you just nodded. Then you said, “But, Jade, we will be different people.”
And the fact that you knew that a day is year was astounding--that a minute from now, we’d have different thoughts and different findings. And I wished to tell you it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t.
Lines. Lines. Lines.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
I took main street up North to get home last night. I stopped in front of the temple, basking in its perverted white light. The lines have always been here. When did they become so sharp? When did all of the stabbing start?
It’s hard to talk to someone about your weakness when you know if you leave, their life just continues. It’s hard to tell someone about all of the panic that the lines caused you, when if you were to stop talking they would not try to stop you. It’s hard to tell someone anything when they could listen to nothing or you or the trees or a crowd or a shadow…
And it would be all the same to them.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
Line. Line. Line.