Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?
I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful. I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?
Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?
Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?
I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer, blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day.
Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.
And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?
Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.
Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:
Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.