Linguistic cartwheels in the stylings of a rant, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night.
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I am a 20 year old female writer residing in Central New Jersey. My influences include the great Dave Barry, Neil Gaiman, George Carlin, and the two greatest editors in the world, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. My webpage can be found at www.homestead.com/foxfyresden and I can be reached at Foxfyre33@aol.com. Happy reading!
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Thursday, October 30, 2003
I returned last night to a place I had never been to, but knew far too well.
It was cold, and the natural night darkness shattered by harsh white lights -
This empty space, this barren place reminds me
Of nothing so much as road work on some 3am morning
And on the steel girder fences hang the signs-
Historical, informational, an outdoor museum, once removed -
And with intellectual indifference, the burgundy on sepia informs me
Of everything I already know, and don't care to know again.
In the center of the cement circus, a single girder looms -
A cross in iron - ancient ward against fairie magics;
And I am unsettled by it - what of other faiths, here?
The wind picks up and howls it's chill across the void -
I gather my coat to me and cling tighter to my companions arm.
I breathe deeply, and the hurt swallows my lungs.
I am breathing the dust of the dead.
I look up and see the lights blur into sad impressionism-
From this impression on me.
And I realize I am crying.
Not because I am patriotic.
Not because I lost someone.
Not because I am angry.
Simply because I am human, and this is too much to bear.
And others walk around me, this midnight, pointing at signs and picture-taking,
And I want to shriek and fly at them, even in my grief.
I hate these fences, and I hate these people -
Walking, talking, as if this were tourism
And I realize that I am the only one crying here.
I never stopped grieving for the people I never knew.
Until tonight, I never knew I started.
Two years slid by while I kept on living, and I start with guilt -
I am cold, and crying, and I just want to leave...
I want to let it become a national cause again
And not my own personal grief.
My tears are fresh with guilt, for wanting to fly from here,
For wanting to put this scene at my back
And run until my lungs ache
From breathing the dust of the dead.
8:33 AM
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