"After I crossed the road, that person honked at me! And she gave me the middle finger! I mean, what the fuck. I hate black people who hate white people who wear tight pants. Can you believe it? Who would do such a thing? I don't like this street anymore. I don't like this whole part of town anymore. That person in that car was so mean. I hate her. Oh, and I just couldn't sit through that movie, either. It sucked. Why would anyone make that movie? They're all terrible people."
I've been thinking about buying a house - a small house with no windows - and filling it with cats and furniture. After a few years, when everything is deeply saturated with dust, mold, and dander, I'd move in, without my inhaler, and slowly begin to die. Because it's not that I'd forget how to breathe, or that I wouldn't try. I simply wouldn't be able to do it. My whole throat would fill up with mucus, and I'd choke.
And choking seems like a fitting way to go. Once upon a time, I felt a pain because I let a few dreams die. But those were my dreams, and I can fight self-sabotage. The Whole was still untouched. But now that I can see, I wonder where the dreamers went, and how long they've been gone.
I wonder who did this. What did this. I'd much rather talk with my eyes.
They don't believe they're bigger than science. Bigger than anything, so any mess made need not be tended to. A small mess never hurt the infinitude of Heaven or Hell or the underground, where dead things live. Unless, of course, it's Heaven on Earth. And could that be the case?
Because I'm suddenly tired from lifting my voice. In silence, there's a second world where I can wait alone. Isolation is the trend, anyway . . . What is alone? Can I go there with what I've got? Self-sufficiency seems an inescapable thought that's been trapped inside the wallet too long. I think I don't want a job. I'm too busy for a job. Who's going to clean up what's right in front of me? I've been employed my whole life, you idiot. I get paid in spirit guides.
And must I be obligated to watch everyone kill their dreams? Where's the light in the eye? I'm blind. Are you in there? This can't be freedom. What is?
I want to help. So how?
If I'm a white person, I want to be a colorless, metallic person - I want you to look at yourself in the mirror.