(2052 Egypt) Like a whip-kissed fresh-made scar that traced her course for months, the word “concentration” came to brand my face El Zorro-style. It is safe to say it was karmic, followed closely after my body felt the concrete upon impact in her absence. To solve for why I lost her grip I had to rewind past the moment I began to drool on Kaya’s back.
She used to dance around with eyes closed, but the music had stopped and her eyes had to face the room that became her world. Silence reigned intact. To look around seemed pointless to her after seeing the colorless walls, bare. Her feet to the ground, sleeping with chains. Humpbacked with her head nailed to her arms, folded up in the corner where the last song had left her. Her mind was nowhere near the room lost in melancholy to past melodies, and down laid the sun countless times without seeing her move. Sorrow was as much hers as the world’s for her missing grace.
I’d say it started long ago, but the true catalyst was my meeting with Mr. Belcher. I usually bike from Downtown to Wynwood for a coffee, a shade, and a space to doodle, write, read, or whatever something I feel like doing. Something other than nothing, that is, after realizing that a 23 year old should have shit worth writing about. Granted, I had seen shit but I thought I’d do more.. the type of shit that gives me life I guess, or of elevating other’s sense of inspiration. Now, back to the catalyst. I would not use that word if that afternoon had not sparked the chain of events that made me believe in alchemy, magic, energy, and anything in between.
Few sights hold our attention with such strength we seem to neglect the running of time. We let ourselves dwell in the moment out of pure appreciation that we are there to witness something that puts our lives in an earth-shattering contrast. We hold front-row seats to the unfolding of something both divine and painful. We were chosen somehow, to be the early birds to a real-life demonstration of a modern odyssey.