Here Is Nothing and Nothing Is Here

In a world where I know nothing, hear what I'm told and am free to imagine composites of what I have seen, I am finding it harder to conceive a shred of reasoning behind my life, your life and life in general. I am but an imperfect sculpture, grey and filled with holes and missing both my arms. Has anyone noticed that in all of Michelangelos works, the nudes of men have remarkably small penises? Is Michelangelo making a statement about sexual prominence through his art? Did he have a small penis? Was it just shame? I alone must thank Kirstin for two of those thoughts, though the third was my own. Which thought was first, which second and third are better to have been determined before one begins to attempt to desipher what in the hell it all means.

Chicken, or egg?

Breast, or leg? Drumstick, but it doesn't much matter. The chicken walked on it.

The chicken crossed the road because it was there. It's overdone, but slaps you in the face for searching for a deeper, even funnier meaning. We all see the simplest things, and we all want them to be bigger, better, more unique. We all shout at nuance, so simple and trite! Why complain when we can pick up our weapons and fight!

I read and reread The Tell Tale Heart yesterday. It begs you to identify! It begs you to lie to yourself and believe what you hear! No, I'm not crazy, honest, I just want to do the same, to look at you all and cry for you, and hope that you'll cry back.

Why kiss when you are the only one there! I need people to bounce things off of, people to speak to and people to hear! Not even hear, to listen. I was never a little boy. I have always been what I am now - and what I am isn't what I'd like me to be! I'd like to draw you in. I'd like you to analyse, rationalize and debunk, rebunk, the things that I say! I beg you to look at the trees! I beg you to stare at your reflection in the Glass, a reflection I failed to see. But I did try.

So, in this I leave you, to read and reread, to identify. Your friend and fellow human,

Chris Rothe

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