![]() ![]() At thirteen, I also thought I had shouldered enough pain to relieve Sisyphus for a day. Thirteen years is really not an awfully long time to have been alive, but at thirteen I thought I’d seen everything worth seeing already. I’m too young to keep being told that I am lacking. They make me wonder if I’ve lived at all. Is that what it means to live anymore: I have to be well-traveled? I can’t feel complete until I’ve crossed oceans and country borders and continental boundaries? I want that to be an act of enrichment, not an act of completion. Or perhaps, like me, you feel as though you’ve seen nothing at all. Have you ever been overseas and been unchanged currency? Have you traversed Santorini or haunted the cemetery in the hills of England, tucked safely into the backpack of a world traveler? I have often wanted to stand and marvel at the base of the Valley of the Kings and now I wonder if maybe you have. ![]() ![]() What streets have you known that I’ll never see? Idyllic farmhouses in central Nebraska or even face-up towards the night sky, teetering on the edge of a New York subway grate. How could I pass you up? How perfect, how oddly fleeting, what onism this is. This night on this bridge overlooking this highway and its veins of red and white, blood and bone, me and you and the dark sky above smattered with stars like a sheet of black velvet sprinkled with loose diamonds. I never had answers she was satisfied with and I often told her “because it simply is”. I had a professor that used to ask me why here, why this character, why right now. How strange a moment that you and I should cross paths like this. *the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore. ![]()
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