I go through life unsure of my place. Unsure of what I’m to do. Unsure of who I’m to be.
I throw spaghetti on the wall and watch it slide down, hitting the floor in a pile. Sometimes a piece catches on the drywall texture. And then it, too, slithers down.
I do this again and again.
This is not really how it is, I suppose, but it’s how I see it sometimes. Or, today.
I pick up that spaghetti and peer into the mess. Slimy, old, decaying. A tangled web of starch, worn out like the hand that's thrown it.
I turn, I prep. Like a basketball player shooting a free throw. Mental pep talk. Bows to God.
Calculating and aiming, I look over at the black oval container. The graveyard of yesterday's discards.
Into the trash.
Age of hate. The color of our skin. Intolerance.
We all pulse red. You shoot me, I bleed the same. My God. My soul. Different and yet not at all. It's not the color, the direction of the prayers, the partner in my bedroom.
We are one people. Two eyes, two feet. Two hands to hold or to steal life.
It's a choice, this thing. This monster of the psyche. That grows with age, inhales the world and spins it, spitting it out as a fallacy. Where humans are divided by kind. Categorized like the grocery store. The black bags kicked to the corner, to be put out with the morning trash.
Swirling within. Dis-ease. Disease.
I fight against the tide. Pulling away, running away.
But the swells overcome me and I'm washed out to sea. Clawing at rocks. Gasping towards the blue above. Towards the shore. Towards the light.
But then the water retreats and sand runs between my toes. Slogging, I press forward towards the shore.
The tide pulls all the way out and I'm left standing with small swirls around my ankles, saltwater dripping from my skirt, my hair dampened into strings.
And for a time I enjoy a glorious moment in the sun. Basking, smiling, stretching my arms above as if awakening. Letting go of what was and relishing in what is.
It's fleeting, I know. The tide will come back soon, I know. But I draw in the sun's energy to prepare for the next encounter.
I turn around to the horizon. The water swells angrily.
I brace myself.