My words are not needed. Yet here they are. Tumbling out in a torrent. I write to bring myself out of the numb cocoon. Of video game avatars. Actors faces on screens.
I dive into the virtual imaginary for months. To forget. Forget the divorce as it rages through my life. California burns. Portland burns. Louisville. I lose count.
Curl fetal in a womb pod of bed. Television. Echo Dot. i- devices. Speak to no one for weeks. Months.
I rise to make bowls of rice and Kim Chi. Do yoga. Java Monster cans pile in a grape embossed wastebasket of antique metal. Ten pills a day. Keeps me put away. In this house of my ancestors. Instead of a padded room.
The America I was once spoon fed? A shattered blueprint washed away. By water. By time. My the waters of truth. By the erasing of lies. The lies in history books I was taught.
Here where I lie at the turning of the years. The waters of history wash over me. To make something new. A new nation. I do not know what. What shape. What form.
I am too mentally ill. Inactive. Not educated in modern subjects. To define what. This stolen land will be. Others more skilled are already on that. Fighting for it in the streets as I type. In the Courts. Congress.
I lie in a bed. Staring at riot footage on my Twitter feed. For ninety nights. Go full nocturnal. Why see the day when the sky is ashes? Why open the blinds, when all I see ahead is doom.
Quarante jours depuis l’élection.
Quarante jours et il y a un selection.
Et tout je veux est de suvivre
Dans cette maison, ne pas ivre.
C’est possible?
Quarante jours depuis l’election
Je fais les étoiles brûlée
Quarante jours de cette attention
Quand mon corps commence à mourir,
Est-ce qu’ils écoutent pour le fin?
Andrea Lambert 