Strut

5. Look at me. Why? Because you insist on straight lines, north and souths, lefts and rights - directions always become a mess! Look at me. Stop strutting and stand in the middle of a straight line. Dare to make it go off course. It won’t, you see? Its direction is embedded into my skin now. It cannot go off course. You did this to yourselves, you’ve denied yourselves. This is it. It’s coming closer. It’s coming closer now. It’s going to hit you. Don’t move. Don't move. Don't -“Evolution has made us into machines,” you say. “We do not turn our heads at the scent of blood. We dare to stare boldfaced at the Sun and see a ball of gas instead of our Mother. She is a a scientific wonder we want to touch instead of a force of destruction that will burn us if we touch Her. What’s more, we hear sirens and crane our necks in the hope of catching a glimpse of a gasping victim. We turn our televisions off and listen to the traffic instead, wondering if other little heads are as mechanic as our own – ”

Oh, please. You are not a machine, child. You are flesh and blood. You are breakable, sometimes irreparable. Doesn’t the melody of the sirens prove that, in and of itself? Continue reading “Strut”

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E.X.P.E.R.I.E.N.C.E.

What is human experience? Has it become a competition of who can see, feel, and be more? What, then, qualifies as experience? What are we trying to attain by the end of our mayfly lives?

Do we regard travel as experience? Is there a list of landmarks in order of most important to most beautiful?

Is it pain? Is it difficulty? Is it the ability to say ‘gosh that sounds hard, but I have it harder!’?

Color, light, petals, spices, crackling laughter… dark, dust, tragedy, broken glass, broken hearts. What of these two opposite sides of a spectrum cultivates our souls and comes together in a jar of airborne telegram letters which together spell E.X.P.E.R.I.E.N.C.E.?

Learning. It is learning. Experience exists both in our mistakes and double takes. It dwells in the corners of the world and the blood-splattered walls. It passes time bathing in the light of distant lands and in the bitterness of someone else’s breakfast. We are curious,and the feast of curiosity is learning. The best meals count as experience.

We are passengers seated between shoulder blades, walking the beast we call Earth like it is still, as it too shoots through dark space on a long unending journey.We gaze at the stars and trace them into the lines of our hands, comparing the wisdom we pretend they share.

If our lives must be storybooks, we have to keep it interesting, so that we, the reader, don’t get too bored. Our story must be worth its usually abrupt ending, satisfied by its ups and downs, content with the paper-cuts it leaves.

How do we achieve this?

Experience.