Saturday, July 20, 2013


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.
The fifth stone went through a window and made a
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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