Conversations with Myself

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It’s believed that one picture says a thousand words: I believe one word paints a thousand pictures. Recently I was asked what diversity meant to me. Such a question surely can’t be answered on the spot. After pondering, I painted this piece giving insight on the diversity found in a young adult’s life.

As I aimlessly walk the sunny streets of San Jose’s East Side I’m struck by a strange nostalgia. I start to reminisce about a childhood that was short lived, of times I walked the streets without any disquietedness in my soul. I think of the transition I made from a timid child to a reckless yet cautious teen. The diversities between the way I am and the way I was are profound. Repenting for my sins and returning to my former self crosses my mind, but I brush it off immediately. It’s not like I’m a bad person,” I just live my life how I see fit”. After an hour of walking and contemplating I become slightly fatigued so I decide to rest somewhere. I choose to rest under the shade provided by a palm tree. Sitting on the cool grass under the tree is tempting but I can’t! As much as my feet hurt sitting in the open will be a sign of weakness to anyone who sees me. I stand tall under the tree remaining vigilant refusing to show any weariness in my demeanor. Stretching and yawning I find myself sitting down, the urge is too great. The white shirt I wear is drenched in sweat so I take it off and toss it over my shoulder. Branching out my legs, the miniature baseball bat hidden in my pants digs into my gut. So I take the bat out placing it neatly next to me. Fighting to keep my eyes ajar the California breeze sways me slowly, slowly to sleep.
Déjà vu strikes me as I walk down a familiar street. A warm fluid drips through my eyebrows, over my lips, and down my chin. Thinking its sweat I wipe my face with the white shirt over my shoulder. To my surprise the shirt becomes red and I taste salty blood on my lips! I have no idea what’s going on but if a cop sees me,” I’m getting stopped for sure”. Washing my face with a hose occurs to me. As I make my way to a random front lawn “ahhh!” Blood squirts from my back followed by excruciating pain and an absence of breath. The fear of death consumes my body. Repenting for my sins crosses my mind again,” No I won’t! Repenting out of convenience is cowardice, Il die how I live!” Strength depleted I collapse falling slowly, slowly to the ground.
Heart thumping, I rise from Satan’s dream and reach for the bat,” Where is it!” My weapon is lost and the sun has long gone down. For choosing to relax in the streets I have to pay the price: a walk home in the night. Putting on my shirt I proceed to march alone, unarmed. Walking in the night is much different than in the day. Fist clinched I sweat bullets walking down the street. It’s a good walk to my house but a short run. However running is not an option; I displayed weakness by sleeping in the street I’m not planning on showing any more. Concentration on my militant march is challenged by thoughts of the nightmare I had. “What are the streets trying to tell me?” Before I can answer my question I spot a brown car slowly creeping towards me. Eyes squinted I make out six people, two in the front four squeezed in the back. I reach for my bat but I remember it’s gone. Being outnumbered without a weapon leaves me only one choice: to stand my ground and prepare to die. I stop dead in my tracks and so does the car. Standing alone I seem to have an army behind me. Heads duck in the car and the vehicle drives aggressively off into the night. “They must have thought I had a gun or something.” My courage grants me a safe passage home. Lying in my bed I can’t help but think of the irony of my day: So much has happened yet I accomplished nothing.





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