Father

He called collect for a reply to unanswered emails; he thought maybe I was dead –

but he’d been writing the wrong address.

The portion of his life that overlaps with mine:

a hymn of good intentions, if you speak Latin.

The mythology of his progeny; how the river of his blood sat diluted in my estuary.

“Ha,” he would bellow, overlooking the sea claim his legacy, “a fabrication from birth.”

And thus with my existence so neatly defined, I simply confirm to him I am alive.

This is

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

This is the very beginning of the very end of the very final act. This is a trillion people gasping and choking. You are not at the very center of it all but you can’t see beyond yourself so you don’t know. This is seeing with the modern eye You see your world being washed away. You don’t see the wave of bodies on the ocean. You see one sunset followed by a sunrise. You don’t see the darkening of the world day by day until generations are born blind because they have no need to see. Little changes over time. It doesn’t matter, not to you, not to any one person, those little changes one by one.

This is a wave of sound, the score to our collective consciousness, but you only hear the beat drop. This is waiting in the unfinished. This is chasing the hum of a plane that never appears in the sky.

This is not how you saw your life. This is what you didn’t see when life was happening. You only saw your feet hit the ground one after the other morning after morning and your knees stuck together tucked under sheets night after night. You had conversations you didn’t bother to remember, you had lovers you didn’t bother to love, you had pain you managed to numb and now emotions are a luxury. Intimacy a physical boundary.

This is fight or flight. A resurgence of the primal intuition generations despised. The sweaty palms and loose bowels and lack of breath before a meeting with the boss. Before a big purchase. At a wedding in a faceless crowd. Now it’s gravity. It’s oxygen. It’s security. This is not choosing if you want harps to wake you as you set your alarm later and extend your planned sleep.

This is learning what it means to make decisions. Not choices. This is not pausing to appreciate a sunset. This is not reading restaurant reviews.

This is the muscles of a lion, the patience of a spider. The raw meat and tasteless afterthought of indulgence. The sandy, cracked-lip drought of distraction.

This is the present. This is the culmination of everyone’s mistakes. This is the fallout from human creation. This is wall paintings and not knowing. This is fragile sustainability. This is a moment that won’t be recognized or recorded. This is your unique perspective kept off the pages of a journal.