Depth of Sight/ Heartland
By Till Kallem (Photo by Kyle Chong)
Sometimes things don’t make sense. Sometimes they do, but that depends on the person. Or the thing. Or both. But isn’t thought only vanishing electrical impulses: existent in some sort of twisted reality for a second, then contorting into nothing? Mother - I find it all very confusing. Sometimes things don’t make sense. Last year I asked you our purpose, and you said it was to keep the land and give “Mother Nature” the strength she needs to blossom but the only “Mother” I see is you. And Mother, you are falling, fading. Have you seen your skin? I think there are hot demons snarling underneath it, scratching flesh away from inside with their venomous and curled claws - you are thinning. Hollowing. Your skin is wrinkling like paper above a hot coal, Mother. Maybe we are all born with coals in us. They grow hotter over time. Emotions are nothingness, just those bloody impulses, but they do burn us over time - Mother - why do we let nothing kill us, rip us to shreds under the arms of our own embraces? I’ve hugged many people. Maybe heat seeps into our coals from their bodies but - who in the hug gives and who receives?
There are also animals, Mother. I know you herd them to the grass, dump slop into their bowls, and then you take their milk and meat but do you see them? Mother, I once walked past them and they weren’t animals. You aren’t enslaving animals but . . . The horses. Mother, did you see them? Charlie was free in his outdoor cage and he was trotting, like stars flicker - and sometimes they fly: at night and you can make a wish without light. He turned. And I saw his face and my eyes sunk into his - the one turned towards me. In a flash there was darkness, then no more - normal again, the light statically perfected, revealing every single hair in unreal detail. He shook his head at me, solemn and wise and I felt his gaze shuffle through the papers in my chest before he turned, time dragging at his hair, and he bounded the flaking gates. Mother, he never left, did he? That evening he was still there and Father never said anything about a disappearance but I woke up in the woods, a few miles out. I never told you. I had small cuts on my feet from the underbrush - I don’t know what I was, what I am. Sometimes I’m a ghost, I think. I leave my own body, or my body leaves me. We are separate, mother, my body is clunking flesh and it hurts, my mind needs to fly. I fly. I flew with Charlie. I’m afraid I can’t come back next time. I’m afraid I can.
What am I?
Sometimes, things don’t make sense - yes sometimes, I can’t make sense. Maybe I’m broken, mangled wood left in a ditch to rot with the rain. I think the loop of impulse has clicked off somewhere in my skull - but Mother, you told me I was perfect. Well is your definition of perfection a bloody mess of unwanted garbage? Mother I can’t be responsible for these things. This is your world- the society that you created - your community. But Mother, what is a community? I keep hearing the word fall bloated from all of your tongues but all I see are dead gates, labored breath, and synthetic cries. People are lies. Sometimes there are other eyes under those we can see. All around us - two sets of eyes, two sights. Who is in hiding and who is the fraud? At the dinner last week Uncle Joe held baby Samuel in his arms like you said Mary held Jesus but when the baby cried Uncle Joe’s eyes turned white and he slapped the child. Well, first time froze and then no one but the body underneath his skin moved and it looked at me like I was an exposed baby - chopped meat flavored with your favorite seasonings - oh Mother I can’t think!
There are colors, Mother. But what is blue and what is green when they swirl in my head? They scream and jeer at me because I can’t catch them - they never stop their dizzying spiral. But maybe they are truly black. Yes, everything is black. The light is a lie; when we blow out the candle and the sun dies and what do we have? Nothing but a sinking black! It suffocates, vine-like tendrils of titanium, black fog slipping into my mouth and nose and ripping apart my insides . . . God, He is light Mother, I think you should be scared: feel it churn in your rotting gut like the ash swirling in my head. But wait, there mustn't be anything in your stomach because you eat the blessed food and that is also nothingness, for it is by God and God is nothingness. You must be nothingness - you pray at night - and that means I am nonexistent because you made.
He saw me Mother.
Charlie saw me.
Charlie moved me.
I need to do it now, Mother. That final act - I’m sorry. I know you will forever live in regret but I just - I just need elsewhere. I’m not made for these flickering lies - my brain stings and I cannot breathe. I need to fall beneath the currents, to feel the stillness of numb water kiss my cheek while I dig my fingers into sand and watch the particles of sediment swirl upwards. I need to not need oxygen. I need to fly. I have wings - they are just beneath my skin. My heart is burning - the wings want to grow. Blood will show me the way - butterflies pouring from my wrists will lead me. My feet will lift from the ground.
Mother, feel my pulse; it’s my only ticket to freedom.
