‘How’, the word of all analysis, the starting point of philosophy, and ‘why’, its faithful companion, always curious to discover solutions to confidence, doubt, and courage to participate in living. In spite of the storm of thoughts some hands blindfully, or maybe enlightened, will grab their lovers without hesitation. It is judged constantly by the suffering, while I contemplate what it means to be gay in America. The effort is empty and meaningless because a report of jealousy seems as worthless as complimenting trees for growing. It carries on without you.
We all want to know the night, but it will not hold substance without hearing that fragile voice speaking into a microphone, telling the crowded room with deep, shivering breaths, how she’s lost a friend to death and a lover to misunderstanding. It is the same as how the letters of the word listen spell silence. We begin with “How?” and “Why?” How many? And why not? Happiness and meaningfulness require a particular commitment where your responsibilities are more subtle than language or breath.
Clearly, intelligence and the body are not familiar with each other, for I am just as curious to know the night and its songs, and its moves during intelligence’s celebration of discoveries made in the day time. It says, “allow me to know blue deepening to dark violet and its carbon orange companion when I walk down the sidewalk touching the hand of the man I will lay in bed with. Let me laugh at jokes and sublte comments that confirm we’re getting along. Don’t hide how this is love. Don’t hide love behind drama and absolute compatibility. Let her be seen in the effort; like that scarred girl telling us her story in a microphone. Just let me know the breeze that evening and I’ll record the rest that happens. I’ll let myself remember how his hands treated my body. I’ll decide if the weather’s nice enough to leave my window open. I know how to decipher if he wants my hand in his while walking, or if I should beg for his lips to come closer.”
Intelligence will gladly stand up upon hearing such good news, and she’ll command herself out of the body, but never leave. She instead only shifted her focus. What it is to see yourself come into the now, watching it all go by.
I wonder if I’m allowed to ask the impossible question, “could you stop asking for privileges and rights?” You totally deserve them and I’m sure you realize that, but I’m tired of watching such queer occurrences fall upon your identity. Would you give it all up for me?
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