Friday, July 10, 2015

you hear in 360 degrees, but see only what's in front of you; can you find the limit at which your peripheral vision slopes off into blankness? i wouldn't bother, but to think about a time your vision was important for survival, in battle you could imagine the field of severed limbs and the effects of aggression all around as stains of blood, either the dying in combat or massacres of combat, how special your peripheral vision was in the grand scheme of political history; sloping off to the glaring you wage a new and all too courageous battle whose twilight is irrelevant to this duty we impose?

so first the engine roar of that station wagon which held us safety, warmly in our winter knitted scarves and heat channeling from the engine; just air that's passed over the engine, which is hot enough to make it waves, bringing our transport to a zone of distinction in January of the coldest season; our little souls knew cold was death while summer we slept under the stars without sweating; through the hostility of a winter you thought about respect, caution, about discipline to ration our resources and to control our behavior in awe of the season that would devour us without sympathy, only we imagined the final thoughts in freezing outside this hub of protection would be the omnipresent ambivalence of nature, so we cherished our every vision of charity; it was a warmth to exceed kindness in every dimension, it was the very energy of ourselves;

we were children then, not ready to administer the source of our survivals; but our first feelings were sympathy to consume the nurturing which would remain our world, only to consume and how long did it take to feel pathetic? only to consume and never to provide this source of sweet precious life? how long until you are locked out in the cold, skinned your knee far from home to discover the neighborhood gangs less sympathetic than your mother about stains of blood? sympathy for the unloved? hardly; that sweet naivety's poetic justice was flickering inside your tummy at 8 years old when you moved your eyes back and forth frantically like some categorical impression an insect leaves, watching the shapes and colors of this world pass by the window of a moving car too quickly for significance; they were broken down, bruised and ugly streets you could never avoid, and they were sad places that needed your childish sympathy because they never felt the nurturing you felt; and at that moment in time, if you remember, you were sympathetic to everything that wasn't you; how long did it take to realize you were alone in your feelings?

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