Hi. This is you. Here you are. Here I am too, but you do not know that yet. You’ll only find it out after a lifetime of remembering and forgetting alike. It’ll be a lot. It’ll be a little. It’ll be all you have for it is all you are: this stream of consciousness at unconscious moments in no chronological order.
I’m five and I learn how to run fast. Real fast. I’m talkin fasta than these words can catch and this mind can know because it’s slow and laggard and feels the exhaustion of going on and on and on until it has gone too far in its little, careful, lazily pregnant steps that never will know the speed at which it can, could, and has gone. Faster than this, certainly.
There’s wind everywhere. It bites me to slow me down but I open my mouth and bite it too. I got some sharp incisors. Wanna fuck, mother nature? I’ll tear you apart.
“Die shitstain. Die.” That’s a weird string of words for my Polish cousin to say. I did not know he spoke English. He told me he didn’t. While he jabs the frog with a giant stick, I wonder if he learned that phrase, a phrase I hadn’t heard myself used in conversation except perhaps once and a while during the private office politics of toilet maneuvering, to impress me. Die shitstain, die.
A frog’s on his hand and I’mma feeling sick and he knows that so there’s a frog on his hand. Trying to make me feel betta and I like that because it kinda helps even if it doesn’t right away. “Kacper, stay awake.” But I like to just know that there’s a frog there somewhere, even if it’s on someone’s hand. I’m even feeling betta now.
A guy iz tuchin me and cold hands iz wat hes got and achoo iz wat i got imma hungry n tired n guy iz to i tink but not to much cause imma hungry n tired n achoo iz wat i got not no brain on me it go byebyebye n guy try to find it but it got go wit the achoo.
Wed. “No Red, Kacper. Say it right.” Wight. I am. “No, right. Roll your tongue.” Woll youw tongue. I am. “Again, Kacper.” Kacpew. “Kacper. Kacper. Kacperrr.” Kacpew. Kacpew. Kacpewww.
“Kacper. Like the ghost?” I guess. “That’s cute.” Ya. Cute.
Where’s my Lego? I’m sure I put it here. Come on. I know I left it here. I didn’t lose it. I would never lose it. Oskar – did you take it? What? You put it in with your pack? You’re selling it at the garage sale? Why? No. I’m not old enough. I still want to play with it. Oskar. Please. Come on. Please.
Thank you for the dance. My knees hurt though. I mean, I’m not complaining. I just don’t know how I feel about this whole grinding thing and I’m not saying I didn’t like it and I didn’t like grinding with you but it’s just that I’m slammed up against you and I’m sure that we could instead be facing each other and dancing and talking and laughing too if you or I or both tell a funny joke and imagine if we said it at the same time and it was the exact same joke and punchline and everything. That’d be so funny. Oh, no. I’m not saying you’re funny looking. Just the music is real loud and my knees hurt from all that grinding and no, no you’re a great grinder, don’t get me wrong. Uh. Okay. Ya. I’d love to grind with you again. Sure. Ya.
We’re clapping with our flesh. Parts I haven’t known that exist click together with parts I’m not sure she knows about either. If there’s anything like love, it’s found in the backside of two different knees kissing.
It’s my birthday and I’m doing the same thing that must’ve been done to do me. Is this all there is in making someone like me? Is this all I am? A grunt here and there and then a tiredness afterwards.
Mama and Tata, sleep. You need it tomorrow. I know it’s hard and I know it’s not fair but we need to pull ourselves together. We can do this. We can beat this. And if for some reason we can’t, at least we can sleep tonight and find out tomorrow what can and can’t be done.
I can’t keep up and I keep running from five years old and everything becomes important because I look back and wish to remember each bit for myself, if not others. I will and must. There is no other alternative for it comes out here and here and it – me, tiny, little me – squeezes, says hello, and a reader can only recognize it if I recognize it. But I don’t. I haven’t. I’ve looked at a few moments and allowed those to be described as though on steps not knowing that i’m caught in the carpeted in between. My foot’s dangling in the air and I’m not sure if I can get there and if I can, I’m not sure if I’ll like what I see because it’s higher and aren’t I scared of heights and I’m not sure because I haven’t been that high before. It was comfortable there a step below. But then it’s gone and I’m gone with it and I’m trying stop, describe significant moments in an insignificant timeline, while things keeping piling on. Even the carpet on the stairs becomes dusty. I’m afraid I’ll slip. I’m afraid I was never upright in the first place.
I’m bleeding. I’m gushing. I’m an ocean of blood and it crashes against the edge of my face like a typhoon that becomes a tsunami that becomes a hurricane. I get ten stitches insides and out. I never stand quite straight again. I’m a liquid of blood that has poured out in front of me. I fill no space. I run away from me. I’m scared of me.
I’m caught in a wave that may or may not crash into a beach, but I don’t see it. Water swells my lungs. Salt eats my eyes. And I swim and swim and swim until I can swim no more. Remember when I wore floaties. I don’t. Remember when I peed in the pool. I don’t. Remember when … and now as the wave rolls over and I feel myself breathing water – it has become me and I have become it – I shit and breathe that in too. Brown escapes my mouth. I prefer it. Different taste. Different water. Different me. And perhaps, too, I know it’s part of me and I’m supposed to love myself even if it’s all just shit. Especially if it is.