Roam, Roam Rome

There’s a bottle full of soul lying on the cold floor. I pick it up mornings to notice history. It is a whiff of autumn air in the summer, the reminder that we are all living shells of time and happenstance. Most hours of the day I spend contemplating words and playful sentences written loudly. The typewriter under my bed frees itself from chains and asks me to touch him. Thumbs rest on space as I finger four, three, two, escape.

The modern art of technology rest solely on the need of the public. Clones for pets and manufactured babies fill the nests news stories grow in. Sometimes they’re free-falling, pushed too early into reality. I’d take a stab at recognizing horrible ideas if I wasn’t a hypocrite; my mind talks trash every time I write in my journal. I never stop. It’s been three years since the last time I liked myself. The soul is dreary when malnourished like mine is. I’ve tried watering it, but it rejects. I want to be fed with miracles - hope.

The priest next door sends blessings through the walls. He asks only for the promise of heaven in return. I give him the finger. I could have thrown a fist, but thought only of laziness. Strange eyes follow me home, watch me carry my cigarette - safety blanket of the poor. I don’t say a word, but in the silence I taste tonight’s dreams.

I love you, man. Clearly, I have not learned your name, you are not John the Baptist. And I am not Ruth, or Rachel, or Rebecca. My eyes graze alive; my tears wash death so clean, he’s white. He doesn’t need to be a poet to know that colors mean everything.

War time is not that bad; it brought us art works of many colors. Neon lights scream open, open me up to the world; I am lost, cracking up at the irony of fame in a small town. My name is Rachida and the whole reason I am alive is because my parents made me, just to be sure they were alive.

For the first 2 years of my life, I couldn’t sleep. So, I learned the ways of the sun. At daybreak, I watched my own life slip into the grass and greet the morning dew. Their conversations constantly evaporating into nothingness; crawling towards the sun. I constantly sent messages to god and tucked them under the tiny seats of their paper planes. They flew into the clouds and mumbled distant phrases of adieu.

My words were dead before they entered this world or the next. God waited patiently for my letters, but eventually all ties were broken. The simplicity of the end was that there were no hard feelings. He told me that it’s okay to enjoy life as a hedonist because nothing survives. No matter how hard he’s tried.

Something worthwhile happens when you are free from god. He lets you run into the woods and gain experience. Choices are easier; friends come quicker; and love is naked and beautiful. Nothing has changed when it comes to the value of my life. It is rich, I can hear its pockets jingle in the night. I have walked for days without a break. i have watched the Buddhists mediate and the Christians pray. Most of the times I cannot decipher which is which until their crosses show.

Jesus knew that he was a failure when the first man was shot.