Where were we, before we were born?
Were we a thought? A passing, melancholy thought?
Was she secretly murmuring ‘Not another girl I hope’ ? As I bulged inside her despairing stomach. A random fate deciding
the sound of my voice, the color of my hair.
We were, some of us, a dream. And some a dread.
Walking this dirty, diseased earth. Knots in our throats,
mountains on our back, ugly words shackling our feet.
And people, grey, loveless, bruised and flat kept on
talking, they kept on walking, they kept on eating, and shitting, and fucking,
and praying, an endless miserable, meaningless existence. Only to produce yet
more tragedies. More grey, loveless, people. Bruised and flat.
Unfulfilled, empty souls, stone hard eyes. The shards of
broken spirits, enough to bury oceans, to cover skies.
We came from nothing. A passive, fearful thought, only to
pour into the pool of filthy, cowering thoughts.
Marble heavy egos, carrying generations upon generations of
shame. Repeated, replicated personas. A pathetic lifetime of compromise, I
thought… Standing in the shabby kitchen. Early morning light flooding false
promises. The sun already forgetting yesterday horrors. I put away the drying
cutlery, the shiny faces of clean plates. The meal eaten, the conversation
spent, everything used and said. The pull of a rackety drawer, the shutting of
a crocked cabinet door… How every little trifle had its place, even a glow of
light.
