I’ve sat here for hours now, watching her dance under that lamp post like it was a spotlight and the stars hanging over our heads were an audience. Her clothes limp,dirty and draped on her slander figure – in my eyes she’s living proof that free will in the modern world is an attainable farce. Only attainable to the delusional and insane, the rest of us just try to grasp the air with our hands, forgetting that is what our lungs were made to do. We’re trying to live with our fists and brains but life was meant to be lived by our hearts and souls. As we corner the 21st century, the identity of humanity is as fragile as ever. People like me and her are keloid scars, we’re tough, ugly and we were invented out of something broken. She twirls and twists around like old mother on her axis, cyphering her movements into data recording itself onto my pupils and this record doesn’t skip.
She breathes deep. Each breath serves as its own form of communication – a conversation being constantly conducted between human and universe. The universe pings at us in question – ‘are you there?’ and humanity replies in a single collective sigh (*yessss*) though we’re all barely breathing. Neither of us can be mistaken as the corporate type who’s satisfied to play grab ass with a stress ball when frustration rears its filthy face. No – for us love was a burden, sight was a burden, joy was a burden which all led to regret and we’d try to escape our responsibilities to our yokes by dulling the brightness with a little substance abuse. We made new homes out of the streets of the city and we lost so much of ourselves that it cannot be forgiven and forgiveness is not in this cities capacity. We’re keloid scars though – we come from the wounded cracks of the city in pain, trauma and hurt in which we are made much more horrible to look at but stronger. She dances to the first humans song, a rendition made anew by persecution and neglect. She dances to solitude’s song.