The first day of spring, everybody wanders to the Boardwalk and steps onto the beach and pretends to feel a warmth in cool sand between their toes. They talk about lions and the learning of innocence and the coming of a lamb we no longer sacrifice. They talk of yesterday’s winds and flooding, and of March’s growing roar, but the power’s back on and we no longer see.
Last night, I woke upside down and dizzy from the weight of the world spinning beyond my grasp. The clock read 3:22. I’m teaching myself to sleep, but until then, I search for meaning. Gematria holds no answers yet. And Atlas’s only shrugging.
I’ve surrounded myself with textbooks and papers and outlines due too late. My work’s divided into chapters, but the words all feel the same. And I cannot learn of justice in a world of black and white.
I am the dissenting opinion. I am the past which history lauds, yet loathes. I am the one who walks among you and imagines anonymity. I’m not finding my voice; I’m losing it.
When I tell you not to love me, you’re not supposed to listen.
