Today I am in Prague.
The kitchen is empty and I sit by the computer, the balcony door open slightly. I exhale a strand of smoke, and it lethargically makes its way outside. There, children race between the trees. Soon it will be time for dinner. The sun has set.
Today I am in Ukraine.
I am hiding behind my sofa. Soon it will be time for dinner. But I do not want to eat. I look out into the yard where I can still hear the muffled sounds of kids playing. I want to go join them.
The memory is so real. I can smell my Great-grandmothers supper. I can hear the kids. I can taste my own feelings at that moment.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am back in my Brooklyn apartment. It is summer, and the air conditioner is on. I am lying on my stomach over my bed, the ever faithful laptop in front of me.
I am writing a book. This summer I will write it. By god, this summer I will do it.
Today I am eleven years old.
I am in Brooklyn.
The air conditioner feeds the air into the room. It is ever the residential oxygen mask. I am lying on my stomach. On the same bed, in the same corner. Telling the same ol' story.
Today I am twenty-two years old.
The years add nothing. They take away nothing.
Only strength.
They can either add it or subtract it.
The choice is, or I like to think is, always up to us.
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1 comment:
There's one little thing you forgot, the years tend to add experience. I'm not saying that anyone actually listens to what they've learned along the way, sure as shit I don't... but that is something.
This summer. With the air conditioner. I know you can.
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