sirens.

we sit in silence as we stare at the lights flashing so hard, i am convinced that they are the source of the loud whining sirens that causes us to reflexively tense. as they fade, you ask what i was thinking about, so i tell you that i was wondering what would happen if we really saw people we looked at in our day to day. whether we would see the lights signaling emergency, and whether we would do anything if we did, and what difference that would make.

this isn't a lie, but what i really want is to tell you a story. it would begin with me telling you that there are things we all carry around with us, accumulated from past experiences that, for whatever reason, we can't let go. sometimes, we can't let go because we've never found a place where we could set it down that isn't already occupied or someone else's. but the weight of accumulation makes us immobile, sometimes imperceptively. what i want to tell you is the story of this woman sitting next to you, who doesn't like to set things down, even when they no longer have use, even though she likes to pretend otherwise. partly because you never can tell when something is no longer useful. but mainly because setting something down means occupying space that she's not convinced is hers to occupy.

the funny thing about setting something down that you've carried so long, it's really become a part of you, whether it started that way or not, is that when you become so tired that you know you have to risk what it means to finally let go, is that this weight has left a conspicuous imprint that stays, no matter how far away you get. and you're so used to carrying it around, that the psychic weight replaces the actual weight, and it's hard to say for sure which is heavier. and i'm still doubled over.

this is true - it isn't just not a lie. it's honest. but it's not much of a story, is it? there's no clear anything, let alone a beginning, middle and end with a definable plot, the leading up to the bold moment of self discovery or other discovery. i've never been much of a storyteller, actually, and your eyes contain expectation that i am sure i can't fulfill. maybe what i'm really thinking about is a collection of desires of how i long to be seen in this world, coalescing in this moment, but there is very little poetry to be found in such blatant honesty of self-involvement. so i lean forward in my chair, placing my hand on the table, and i open my mouth in hopes of telling you this or something similar, but instead, i put another cigarette in and reach for the lighter, letting the tar and nicotine seep in over the rough formations of a story that i know is there to tell somewhere, burying it, lost forever in that moment.