Maybe, as roped and shackled prisoners sweating and suffering, often out of breath, we have cried out every name we can think of to describe that living part of us that has gradually slipped away to the cemetery in an effort to throw them off. Part still-formed twin of the very garden that founded us, we resist becoming the blank glare of a square luminous flux without shadow, the child’s afternoon without the child.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Perhaps we are engaged in an endless war that never feels like a war. As our torturers turn affectionate, offering us free Vitamin Water, they whisper, there’s no chance of getting out of this, but we admire your willpower to remain as swollen doors that require strong shoulders to push them open, we really do.