In a hundred, thousand, million ways — you don’t know me at all. You haven’t seen the roads I’ve walked down. The stones I’ve thrown. The ways I’ve been shot down.
You see a sliver of a person you think I am and we dance, ever careful, round one another.
But there’s a charge inside that you can’t identify and won’t ever be able to define. It’s the spit and salt of everything I’ve ended up as. It’s the scars that don’t glow white anymore, and the history lines that don’t show anymore. It’s the cuts that left nothing but the fear of being cut again. It’s the fights that left nothing but the will to fight again. The aggression that rooted nothing inside of me but bitterness and a way around it.
But how, for fuck’s sake, could you possibly know?
I can’t express myself through words and images, through broken towers and statues cracked and shattered like ice on a pond from a big thrown rock.
The programming just keeps calling me crazy. And, naturally, it’s not going to stop.
I need to stop expecting a different response.
I need to stop trying to convince robots.
I need to seem less programmer, more magician.
I need to stop looking for empathy where it cannot grow.
I need seeds to throw and not these harvest tools to sow.
For the ground is still frozen and we’re only now just approaching the thought of the thaw.