Month: July 2004

They said I should go out.

And so I did.

Sunshine at last!

My legs were moving.

My blood was flowing.

I heard my voice.

I laughed.

I wished you were here.

I always wish you were here.

You will be here, right?

Just wait a second.

Time is faster than we think.

I will be there.

We will be somewhere.

Together.

Our hands will clasp.

Our eyes will meet.

I’ll hear your voice.

They said I should go out.

I’ll take you out with me.

Just wait a second.

I have two flags right there.

Right there, on my binary showcase.

One says where I was born.

The other, where I live.

Both of them are the same.

Treasures, skies and seas, and blood.

I wanted to change one into the Rising Sun.

Variety seemed fashionable.

A flag so unique seemed fashionable.

Showing off this love seemed fashionable.

But then I thought it was a really stupid idea.

I’m not there.

I wish I were there.

My heart is there.

My heart is with him.

Maybe his heart is here too.

Our hearts are mingled.

I won’t be there until my body is there.

I can’t pretend that I’m all shiny there when I’m really here.

Speaking the language is not being there.

Eating the food is not being there either.

And I wasn’t born there.

I wish I were, but I wasn’t.

I can’t deny my nationality.

My unvisable nationality.

I am what I am.

Flags will change when life does change.

Otherwise, I’m just a poseur.

And then I type again, co.

It worked for Penelope…

I don’t like Cirque du Soleil. It makes me think of disturbing things.

I don’t see it as a normal art company comprising normal human beings. No. Cirque du Soleil is an unearthly realm where everyone is talented (they jump! they bend! they fly!). The inhabitants of the Cirque do no accept people who don’t clap, who don’t laugh at their classic, insipid humor. Thus, they kill them in the most pintoresque ways. It’s so colorful, blood becomes yet another hue on their grotesquely flawless faces. I cannot describe the procedures.

I’m scared. I did not smile when the clowns gazed intently at an abandoned rope. The men who fly and the girl who bends have come back, they stand around my helpless body. I see their doll-like faces staring at me. The singer with the crystal antennae is howling nonsense with her ragged, yet clean voice. It hurts. They hurt.

Silence. Their china faces melt into play-doh smiles. The audience breaks into a hysterical applause. The act is done. The deed is done. The outcast is dead.