Fair Is Not a Factor in This Equation
Hunger, I will name you, place you in the center of my belly–try to fill you, shut you up with cheese and chocolate, rich and fattening things, make my body plump and gluttonous, so not even I will want to look upon it.
Why: origin, Old English, by what cause. Porquoi, por qué, warum, perché, quid. French, Spanish, German, Italian, Latin–all the same question, all the same silent answer.
I have learned to take up all the space in my bed.
I seem to have developed a condition in which my brain conjures definitions for words that do not exist, and I sit at my desk, reaching, searching for these phantoms, inevitably settling for something sub par, my own mind having ensured that what I choose will always feel wrong, will always be less than a perfect that is not here to be found.
I pray for the pain to end. I read that pain is God’s megaphone. I keep praying my prayer. One can only suffer so much shouting, or so one keeps insisting. But on the shouting goes. It gets louder.
How many people have said it? There is blessing in obedience. Is there.
In “Light Up the Sky,” The Afters sing that there is nothing God won’t do. I’ve listened to this song a thousand times and only realized today that it isn’t true. There is nothing God can’t do. There are many things He won’t do.
Why does it seem so much easier for everyone else?
In certain parts of the world, it is illegal for women to spit in public. I cannot count the number of loogies I’ve hawked on the lawns of Eastmoreland, where in summer, I run in a sports bra and shorts, my greatest fear a car full of men who will slow as they pass and call out obscenities, wolf-whistle as I flee.
John von Neumann said, “In mathematics, you don’t understand things. You just get used to them.” There are days when I think I can’t take anymore. And yet, here I am.
I collect fallen camellia blossoms from the sidewalk in front of my house. I don’t bother washing off the dirt or ridding them of the rain water collected in their petals. I place them on coasters on my desk, damaged pink blossoms devoid of stems or leaves–something heavy in their centers, where all they are converges to carry them down.