as its fundamental task

by howaretheyfor

I asked him to ask her how she felt and they all laughed at me, drawing exes in the air in front of them, “boy boy yes girl girl yes boy girl no,” a boy can’t ask a girl how she feels and I laughed and wondered at the romance; we dance around the question where I’m from wishing for motions like in books, falling in love with the eyes (with just the eyes!) and a deeper knowing a not-needing-to-ask-because I see it in her eyes and she sees it in mine but instead a back and forth of needing to know boy girl no what does she feel–I see where she’s been papercut into being from the book of god, the delicate lines of her fingers that must have taken ages, the long gentle cut of her hips that had to be done in one snip and the frayed edges that are her hair where she was ripped at last from that book and held up to the great eye flapping in the wind, “she will do,” then brought to the great lips and blown down to land flat into the world crying waiting to grow into what she was papercut, but there is a thing within her and her paper is a haphazard reflection of the crayon wax that fills her, those colors come to the surface and leak through and briefly I will see a green smudge on her arms or some red in her air… It’s why we look into the eyes or fear to look into the eyes because the eyes are not made of paper like the rest of us they are made of glass, and though we are filled with darkness, if you stare hard enough you can see the waxes that make her the crayon juice that her crumpled body wraps around not waiting and I said to ahmed, “don’t you want to wrap your hand around her and crumple her, indent the grooves and prints of your hands on her body and force the crayon to leak through, force the wax to come spilling through the spaces between your fingers, not to shred her or ruin her outsides but to pop out each of her perfect glass eyes and swallow them whole and shake her until she is empty of herself– and he said, “teacher I fall asleep dreaming every night of love but have no name for love only the images that are given to me, what does it feel like to force her wax through your fingers, to see her as she really is?”

Ah but we are paper also, ahmed, how easily we forget that when you reach to crumple you too crumple and the harder you push the more your folds fold into her folds looking for a place where her wax and your wax can melt into each other; “teacher, I fall asleep dreaming every night–

I keep hearing the word “hope” here. And can’t help but wonder at it, how we are a system of logics and evidences and are from the moment of our birth drinking in our surroundings and consciously and unconsciously coming to decisions about everything we see, how weights function, how surfaces function, tape and staples and hats and pen caps, we know these things to be a thing and to do a thing and we use these knowings of pen caps and tiny wheels and wires stapled to walls to operate. Not many of us break very frequently from our personal, perfect system of expectations, seeing the sky for the clouds or the dirt for the road, but all of us hope and most of us imagine. Despite our ability and evolutionary habitude to day through the world, week through the months, and month through the years we all of us close our eyes before we sleep and draw pictures that are not. “We are defeated by Israel but we are not without hope,” a thing in the face of all sense and all evidence there are men with only one leg here I hear weeping every morning wishing somehow that sleeping into slip and coming back would change everything, that the world would be different complete, that he would have two legs and trees would grow down from the sky and all buildings would be broken and toppled but for the windows which still hang in the air, he hangs at my legs when I pass trying to sell me watches but what he says really, “I wish every night when I sleep that when I wake everything will be new, every night I pray, which is a kind of hoping on my knees, and wish of things that are not for everything that is not” We are filled with objects of science and sense, evidences that construct us and life slowly forces more and more things into us that make sense, but there are also evidences of senselessness, objects collapsing unexpectedly under our weight and girls falling in love with us and strangers giving us gifts, things that are rare that lead us to think and hope all call those things god: the things that cannot be, the are against a lifetime of evidence, leaves falling in reverse and cats that speak in tongues, reaching to lean on a wall and falling through into the space between trapped somehow brief moments all of us when we shake our head and, for a second, have to remind ourselves that we are. Those moments are god, those moments are hope, that we will wake up stronger, that tomorrow will be different, that the next day will be better, that the world will be anew, as children who are not as logged with evidence can still believe that if they try hard enough they can fly or make a pen levitate because the evidences aren’t stacked against them and they are yet filled with god’s wax but slowly it pours out of us, drops from the bottoms of our feet and in our tears and in vomit and shit and semen, it leaves us until. We are all papercut from sky