8:59 p.m. - Monday, Oct. 22, 2012
Story #21
Green is forgotten here. Textures like softness, under toes or against cheeks . . .Sweet smells like cookies baking. Wind rustling through leaves or cool water flowing over rocks along a riverbed. These are absent. Everything is gray here. Even in the sunshine. Black and gray. Stark. Metal chain link fences and concrete. It hurts. I sling the pain across my shoulder like the bag that carries my laptop.
Pain is an object I carry. Not a feeling. Not an emotion to experience in the body. All feelings are objects. Objects can be manipulated, bought and sold, controlled, given away, thrown away . . .owned, disowned.
I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie over my fingertips and stretched the sleeves. Then I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Then I knotted and unknotted the strings dangling from the neck. Then I twisted my hair around my index finger. Then I pulled my socks up. Then I tugged at my pant legs. Then I started at the beginning and worked through all of these actions again. And again. And again. I wanted to unzip my skin and step out of it. Walk away. Heat rising to my cheeks and sighs of frustration escaping through my lips.
If I wanted this, I wouldn't be here.
If I wanted this, I wouldn't be here.
And that's the story.
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
- Tupac Shakur
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