My anger is hungry. Its stomach growls, its hands reach. But there is nothing there. There is nothing to be angry at.
Like birds on a wire, I watch, and I wait.
I am kind, and I forgive. But you are at my front door. And no longer am I proud of these virtues, I do not want them when it comes to you.
Wheat stalks blow in the wind, a pig is slaughtered next door.
There is a heart-beat coming from the forest. It is so loud, and so fast. And terrifying. It is Autumn, It is mine. The leaves keep falling.
The paint is red, and peeling. I too, am red, and peeling.
A cow pelt hangs in my kitchen, and I wonder how she felt when she was taken from her calf. I do not have children. Is death merciful? I hope it was for her.
Crows fight over carrion, and the cracks in the asphalt shrink under the burning sun.
You are back, and pleading. I want to keep my anger. You remind me of that pig, loud and scared. But I look at you, and your teeth are sharp. To me you are pathetic. I shut my front door, and in the silence I forgive you.
You hear. It is not meant for your ears.
It is meant for mine.
I lay in the sun and I can hear the music in my head. The violin, the piano. The music of my future. It swells and I breathe in, feeling the desire for greatness grow in my soul. To be known, is yo be remembered, and my memory will last long after my death. The history books will know my name, will know my songs. I won’t be matched; I will grow and climb and play my way to the top, ambition in hand and a hunger in my chest. I will be famous. I will be _extraordinary. _
My arms are moving on wide arks, dashing lines across the board. The chalk leaves dust in the air, my hands flying through the clouds, scrawling wildly, as if my last moments are here and these are my final words. My eyes are flicking between points, erasing, redrawing, erasing, more lines. I’m out of breath and my arms hurt, but I’m not done. So close, but not done. Finally, I draw the last line. I take a step back, looking in wonder at the chalk-covered board. The numbers fit together like a mosaic, pieces coming together to form art. The base equations are simple, but that’s the beauty of it. Such a complex problem able to be solved with pieces already known, weaved together to create something new. To create the unknown. I take a step forward, circle the solution, and set down the chalk. Turning around, I see people furiously checking my work, and one by one they set down their pencils, looking up at me with hope. It works. “This is the dawn of a new age,” I think.
“The stars await us.”
i was never going to be enough for you, and it brings me a sense of comfort, that we were doomed from the beginning. i love you. but i am resigned to the fact that it can’t be me, who gives you what you need. i hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. i hope i can find it in myself, to forgive me.
