i can rarely move. and i need to to be part of this place.
they explained at the window that i require circles and trinkets, and several other tangible items that make a person real.
That I hadn’t been born with it, but they couldn’t cut the malfunctioning part out..
i get up, and it gets down. and i remember that it gets up.
when i was three and five and six. when i was in my room.
drawing pictures of people i have never met..
writing your name down and talking to you.


that they like me when i show them how confident i was born.
here.
and how i smile and boast and say how silly words seem.
And they like the way I look.
and several other things about serious behavior and how our calm makes us real;
that they do not loose feeling in their limbs; awake.
They do not shake and scream while dreaming..
They do not hear words that come together about yellow trees and dry people,
Andveryfirmlytheytookcaretodescribethattheirdaysdonotfollowoneanotherbutaregentlyanddistinctlyseparate.

As if a line were drawn between sleep and sun.

Where I am only a few days old.

a sense maybe imminent for people that aren’t born. [and I imagine them wise and calm. And real]
and they hear the music I do that is not there.
And they can feel the vibrations of people that they have never met.
And know feelings and the waves of bumps across your arm from the way your mother stroked your hair.
[no matter how silent time had made it]


But opened in my book are words that have been read and re-read so numerous of times that the letters have been near faded by my eyes..

“and people came from all over the land: a woman who since birth counted her heartbeats and had run out of numbers, a man that got up at night to undo the things he had done while awake, a man that couldn’t sleep because the noise of the stars disturbed him, and several others with less serious ailments..”-Marquez