, which is not to say that I am lacking in that respect, but rather
that my voice, a voice that relies on a pair of inherited chromosomes, the
eternal promise that this air, the same air we’re sharing, will always be able
to vibrate and carry those vibrations and transfer them to the hidden
receptacles within your body so that you can interpret them, and not an
insignificant amount of chance that my shaking voice will match to patterns you
are familiar with – but of course you must be familiar with them as you are
human and I am human and our humanities allow for a certain amount of innate
understanding of one another unless you are, well, you know those people to
whom I refer; there is a difference between talking and speaking and it lies in
the fact that for one, there is no purpose, and for the other, the purpose is
complex, evolving, and inviting others to eventually join a larger conversation
over something that is personally meaningful and to somehow have to convey
these abstract ideas and words by means of voices over which we have no
control,
II.An Afterthought OR My views on the purpose
of existence
( )
III.My Poem
“Man is
least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell
you the truth.” – Oscar Wilde
I speak with
words not my own.
Who owns
each syllable, each sound that drops from my lips like diamonds and
diamondbacks?
Each hiss of
breath,
hiss of hot
lead
feverishly
melting in delicate patterns on paper,
who owns
this?
The writer
has the fever,
infects her
audience with its heat,
but the
fever belongs to the disease which has come before,
and will
come again,
though an
age may pass in between of curséd health.
It’s the
cacophony of teeth,
the smell of
sweat and stale vomit,
the neatly
simmered rage,
all of these
things of mine,
that
plagiarize the playwrights and philosophers of old,
those rulers
of the Golden age of thought and reason and linguistic innovation,
who, in turn,
plagiarized the divinity of the planets they could see,
somehow
turning them into a mockery of a representation in the process.
But the
planets are mere shadows in the background of some ancient man’s cave painting
and in the
foreground is the only truth he knows:
the
immediacy of his situation and,
unable to
see past his need and into the future, he
like me,
speaks with
words not our own.
