I am waiting for my bus, an empty number of feet wedged between two behemoths of technology expelling heat and gas as they hum in park, in a semi-catatonic state that mirrors all the faces around me. The fumes make the empty space between look like a mirage; all watery and soft around the edges, constantly moving, shifting, surreal. In the background the building I spent most of my time in during college is being demolished—asbestos. I feel like a part of my past is being demolished. What is the saying? Time waits for no (wo)man?


They are knocking down Coleridge, Wilde with loss. There goes Dickens with the support beams, Whitman went with the windows. Goethe is a ghost amongst the ruins. Balzac hangs in the broken ballasts. Capote lies crumbled in concrete. Faulkner has faded in the foundation—the specters of my youth—because I didn’t see it at the time, but I was just a youth then, all 19-23 years of me. I guess I identify with the bulldozer. I am constantly reconstructing myself. I have no more room to carry past-selves, just all my future selves. But the feeling of loss is there, like a mirage, at times haunting me, overwhelming me.


I am untying the dead bird of youth from my neck. 




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