Week 3 Topic
A storm rumbled behind me and I had no idea. It was at my heels before I had time to even turn around. Why? Because I was deaf and dumb -- an infant in a body that demanded me to be more academic. They wanted quantum physics when all I could do was wail with a scrunched up face. I couldn’t open my eyes, and I didn’t want to. Who cared about the storm? It was someone else’s problem, not mine. And then I felt the drop. What was that? A cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding; I bled all over everything that I touched. I was not nourished properly and I kept running into problem after problem after predator after problem. The boogeymen were real and they tried to eat me, gnashing their teeth from the shadows and paralyzing me with their frightful and intelligent eyes. I wasn’t intelligent, I was stupid. I knew nothing and in my ignorance, these things happened. Was I to blame, the adult body with the child mind, that stared at myself in the mirror? Get knowledge, get rich, make a buck and die. And yet … ?
My head hurt as I was slammed forward -- forward into bars. I felt the cold iron at my fingertips, realizing that the prison cell was both of my own making and yet all around me. I didn’t make it, but yet I perpetuated it. Poor, sad broken little soul, the shadows spit, you will resort to nothing because that is what you are -- a nothing. No, I reply as fingers curl and tighten around the bars. I’m a someone. I have an identity and a purpose and a reason for existing. This game that you’ve planned and placed others in roles to continue it: the bullies, the crooks, the greedy, and the evil -- they are the pitcher on your home plate throwing mean, fast balls in your trembling direction. You feel the air pass your face, feel yourself stepping back. But this isn’t their turf, their territory, their home -- it’s yours, it’s mine! It’s their turn to be on their guard. I see through your crooked brushback pitch. And with a well aimed and experienced swing -- I brush you away.
My head hurt as I was slammed forward -- forward into bars. I felt the cold iron at my fingertips, realizing that the prison cell was both of my own making and yet all around me. I didn’t make it, but yet I perpetuated it. Poor, sad broken little soul, the shadows spit, you will resort to nothing because that is what you are -- a nothing. No, I reply as fingers curl and tighten around the bars. I’m a someone. I have an identity and a purpose and a reason for existing. This game that you’ve planned and placed others in roles to continue it: the bullies, the crooks, the greedy, and the evil -- they are the pitcher on your home plate throwing mean, fast balls in your trembling direction. You feel the air pass your face, feel yourself stepping back. But this isn’t their turf, their territory, their home -- it’s yours, it’s mine! It’s their turn to be on their guard. I see through your crooked brushback pitch. And with a well aimed and experienced swing -- I brush you away.