acatalepsy
“Children must be taught how to think, not what to think.”
The future has an ancient heart written between two distances. Green tiled floors and a red door with a brass handle. The walkway presents a myth; the boundary is the dark cloth covering the woman’s face. Does she laugh? I cannot hear it. Her smile is shrouded by a century of desert dunes that dictate who she will become. Donkeys on the highway, camels at the door. Two knocks and I understand this is where the old greets the new. Culture is stacked precariously as the mosaic tiles in the corridor. I glitter by as a fish with scales weighted by salt. The only language I understand is the sound of the sea. The past is young-blooded and broken by the shards of memory used like kitchen knives, carving with both hands. The moment is more palatable when split into bite-sized pieces. Totality is cumbersome and cannot be consumed. Each story is part of the performance. The distance between here and now is divided when you open your mouth to tell me what I want to hear.
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