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Into The Mirror

Everything’s the same.  It’s just a little different.

I have a heavy heart. The whole world is out there killing each other, like maniacs, like a bunch of children who don’t get their way. As if the last thousand years taught us nothing; or simply, that many folks have no grasp of human life, of human suffering, of the love that weaves us all together. I didn’t lose anyone this weekend, but I know someone who did. It hurts. It hurts all over.

I went to bed at 5:00 three times this week.

Like the last time, when the clown went into the theater and started shooting. Or the time before that, when the kid went into the school full of little kids and started shooting. Or when the student went into the lecture hall and started shooting. Or when those two kids went into the high school and started shooting. Or when the watch-guard went into the neighborhood and started shooting the kid with the skittles. Or when the men in masks went into the cartoon room and started shooting.

I am empty.

And the whole world will feel this way for a week or two, and then everything will be the same again, but just a little different. We will all commit to never forget, only to forget, until they start shooting again. They will be different people, in different places, in different masks. But it’ll be the same: another chill that veils the humans of the world in a gripping, but distant, paralysis.

Everything’s the same. It’s just a little different.

I can’t seem to get away from November. Like three years ago, when I lost you. I unraveled. I walked around with my hood on, wandering in the wind. Like last year, when I lost you again. I didn’t drive anywhere for a little while. I didn’t want to get in my car, because I knew it wouldn’t take me to you. Like right now, I’m losing you one more time. I’m walking around with this feeling, this feeling that feels like porcelain fingers on a baby grand, in a cement corridor, the taste of lukewarm earl grey. The waking up at 3:00am, the blinks before you realize it wasn’t a dream. The lack of appetite, the lack of appetite to eat a sandwich, to play, to do all those things I used to do. The solitude, the scribbling of poetry and the exchanging of glances with the passerby’s I’ll never meet. The melancholy chuckle. The early evening.

This November, it’s the same. It’s just a little different.

And so when I see the woman on the bus whose face looks just like a fingerpainting, madness and all, in brown flats and red stockings and a peculiar gaze, that of a hurricane, I’m struck with the art that we can all be sometimes. And when I dry my dripping scalp and pause, shivering, and ache for the towel that wrapped around me once before, the one you used to keep for me, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. And when the gunman unloads his final magazine into the skull of the earth, and the thought of your death is why I skipped lunch, and the ribs of my stomach stretch out to catch my fleeting breath, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. And when I look into the mirror, and it’s the same face as yesterday, only a little different, and some mornings I’m afraid of the person I’ve become, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. 

And I remember that, just like last time, it’ll all be the same again. It’ll just be a little different.

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4 thoughts on “Into The Mirror

  1. Incredible post. It is so sad that whilst the world will unite around such tragedies as we have seen recently, in a few weeks we will have forgotten as we wait for something else to happen that brings us together and makes us realise once again. This cycle perhaps a greater tragedy than the killings themselves.

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