I was a child when I saw myself
through the lens of a
telescope. Mr. Bowman had the
image, captured by satellite,
on his desk. Beyond imagination, he’d muse. Even then
I was asking myself whether I was
inconsequential or a
functioning part of some grand
design—wondering what part
of that speck was my tiny,
rundown home. That same day
I was tossing stones at a three-story
behemoth at the end
of my street, make-believing that
it was Goliath and I
was the young shepherd boy who
was soon to be king.
haven for shards of broken glass
out of the clean,
burgundy carpet and my father
snatched me out of
grandeur and set me down in a
state of disillusion
I was a decade older and a
quarter of decade wiser when
the telescope returned to me, and
I knew then that It was
God and I was Its forsaken son,
dying for no sin at all
I shouted into the heavens as if
space were not the emptiness
around me but instead was an
entity that was as tangible as the
earth, itself, and when I touched
it, I knew for certain that
I was lost.
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