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If You Were Born Tomorrow

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Today you barely open your eyes, your bones are somewhat ossified. You remember the occasional hums that you enjoyed. Today you realize that some of the hums were but cries that symphonized with the sounds of your mother’s body fluid creating harmony. You knew that every time you kicked or punched you received more of the songs you loved, but today you realize that those songs weren’t meant to be loved. Today, you realize that the drums that they played rhythmically are bullets bombarding the world outside your world. You just begin to figure out who plays the bass, who moves the orchestra with such timely and elating bass. Then you learn about the tap dancers, who march near the side walls of the theater, in awing unison. You hear about the men holding rain sticks on the balcony, making rain.
If you were born tomorrow the first things you will see are pieces of you mother’s favorite cake, beautifully prepared on the floor. You will also see pieces of your father, scattered across the ground. You’ll see your mother’s pale face, which will look a bit sad and a bit placid, because she had seen it before. You will see the broken walls of your house, dust covering every object in every corner that you look at. If you were born tomorrow you will wake up from your dream, and be like the others, living in a dust-covered reality.

You rather not be born tomorrow for the world outside your world is too large—in it, you are insignificant, a single particle of dust lost in the storm. Today, you wish that today lasts forever. You wish that the rain-makers and bass-players and the drum-beaters and the tap-dancers continue—in unison—to make this show, like today, last an eternity.




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