a lifetime or few i would ask for from god, the catch is that each of it
should be short but full.
one long perpetual haul broken into sections, a samsara of my own definition, reincarnation, yes,
but with god's only promise that i
won't belong to time ever.
some lifetimes perpetually decorated and to never slow down.
to crash and burn, to live in interesting times, to understand that the end
is the end, to fuck up in all ways that could be fucked up.
i could be everyone.
three summers it has been and nothing's new to me anymore but the people.
the clockwork is then,
every spring, the worn out road, sun-bleached roofs of homes,
everything about this place that exhaust me to my bones gets rebirthed through lenses
of eager eyes, so foreign and novel, still.
a bystander with camera for a face standing tall aiming for the barely blue afternoon sky.
shoot.
lately, i feel like i'm doing time, staring at a peeling grey wall, knowing so well that there is
something i've got to learn and unlearn before i could be freed.
but you know, again, i can run and change my hair, my name and how i talk.
some of these things will come back and bite me in my ass, but fuck,
i stood and stare in awe of this camera-faced girl, and many before her as
the clock ticks away another one of my short minute.
a moment in-between the takings, i think to myself: how
devoutly i believe that there's gospel in the photo feeds feeling of these tourists.
