somewhere in the middle of this journey
is the chaos of our presence
we like to dislodge and vomit of this
nostalgia of where we come from
we like to go back to the womb
and regret having grown our legs
we blame the hands of the midwife
we want to pinpoint who slapped us
we like to hear the sound of vengeance
of our first cries
did we cry for help? did i cry because
i never asked to be put here?
or did i cry because i am just making a lot of nonsense
about my innocence about despair?
i get some names of fathers and mothers and siblings
i write them on a page of a book and i ask what if they were not there
what could have been? what could i be part of?
i shout, i am an individual, i am not a part of this relating places
i am not a connection of the branches and roots
i stretch my hands wanting to touch and get hold of a rope
there is nothing there to put my neck in shame.
we get some comfort to the miseries of others.
we become brave from the stories of their sorrows and misfortunes.
we read the stories and the poems of those who know what is wrong.
what is pain, what is so distressing.
soon we learn this game. This art of shrugging our shoulders and then
putting the payment on the table, not drinking the glass of beer.
Leaving the table and not saying any word at all. And this we tell ourselves,
i am courageous. I am silent. I grow alone. I die alone. I am beautiful.
No comments:
Post a Comment