The staring of the stranger is what I wrote about a winter morning.
Winter mornings are cold and bitter. The sea of time stands open.
I am the hash of secrets; the secrets of all secrets. I am torn between two worlds-
The worlds that drip like unforgotten eyes in the middle of the sea of ghosts.
I don’t remember ghosts. I remember my mother, like a great ship on the sea.
I remember things shouldn’t come between me and the riddles…me and the rocking
Boat. A boat is not a smile, I learned in school-I also learned I am nothing but a lamp
Post, a dragon who isn’t remembering anything but herself. I am not myself. I am the
Dream within the dream. Shadows rise out of nothing and the dreaming is warranted.
I sweep the hair out of my eyes and gaze at the stillness around me, in the classroom-
My teacher is sweeping words across a chalkboard, and somewhere far away a child sneezes, in some other classroom like in Jamaica or Spain or Guam and I think to myself
What has become my life and why am I here, the great question, the question of all questions, and the thought of my mother comes into my mind and she is like the stillness of autumn, or like I said before, a ship rising out of the water-and then there are the actors
And they are better than me and there are actors who are taller than me and try to scream obscene words in my ear, above all else, the sound of the cars on the street, and lamps shutting on and off, and my screams ripping through the ear and no one can hear me-
No one will see.
The staring of strangers exhausts me. I am bothered by the cold.