Untitled for Now
You are surrounded and smothered by clichés, and so you find yourself wading through reality, living on Earth as an alien. And then at some point, you disregard the romance of being otherworldly, and instead long to be among the hoards. You just do. Everybody does. There’s no shame in it. Just disappointment.
When this happens, the soul travels from somewhere near the heart to the head. It leaves the place you can’t really identify or understand and enters the place that can be sliced and probed with precision. You lie there bleeding out, but it doesn’t matter how much it hurts because the cause and effect of it all makes good sense.
Newfound good sense makes you say fruitless things like:
“I’m sorry that you don’t have a swingset and a backyard.”
“And for all the time you spend in the backseat.”
“And for the times I look at you and see someone else.”
“I’m sorry that there was no unquestioning love in the pictures on our walls.”
“I’m sorry that things are untitled for now.”
Isn’t it romantic how we spin these tales of loss and how we inject pathos into everything we touch? I sit in my car at night and act like somebody I’m not. Jagged, blurred pieces of storefront signs reflect in my moving window and cut through my cheek. Like in the movies.
I know you want to be an alien too. You wonder, “what is a rainbow?” and you would never think of it as beautiful. You look different and sound different. You misunderstand the simplest traits of human behavior. You are dangerous and new. People care about you.
There it is. People care about you. You are unidentified. You are untitled, for now. And billions of us will vie for the chance to be the first to name you.
Originally published at nickmurosky.tumblr.com.