Essay on being both the prey and their predators

By | 1 June 2022

I open the window and let the cool enter. Wind becomes a pool of locusts. I would stand there, would let my face swell by its cold, then call for my own name twice.

Nothing answers.

Every time summer arrives, it goes. It goes like a broken bulb. The locusts are alive. The locusts are lurking in the season. All around the sounds of their scissoring. The faucet is broken, I think. The room listens to its dripping.

Outside the night ambers down, I realise I want to go home.

Vein-blue. Flashes of trains carve themselves against quiet, I listen and rest my head on the table, arms laid under. That faint light of myself, the body deflects like a blade. I want to go and rub my face against the metal-rusted sky. Midnight howling of the neighbour’s dogs.

Look at them, my mother said one time about those pit bulls, chopping her two-weeks-old refrigerated onions, I sometimes feel like they’re pretending to do this dog-screeching thing but perhaps, no—I guess what I mean is—can you pretend to be who you’re supposed to be—and then, funny enough—you’re not? I guess no, yeah? I mean—

I think that, for most of the times, I post things online for attention. The ‘cultured extracts’ from Wong Kar-wai’s to Godard’s, and then Tarkovsky’s, are how I’m building a cultural self.


I mean, to even say the word ‘selflessness’, you are murdering language. There is a literary thing for it, after all.

God, the anti-image is such an itch—I want to build my body so it brims to the edge. So it loses itself.

anyway, dinner is nearly ready. I sat myself down, the table became a flatland. My heart throbbed itself into a caged bird.


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