the mute

"today is the beginning of your new life"

i scoff. what's that supposed to mean? i don't really know, but the words feel good against my body. in the shower i give a speech and the soap, is speechless. it's best to give speeches in the shower because all your mistakes are washed away instantly. too bad all of life weren't like that, or rather, i had the ability to imagine the figurative metaphor. but this isn't me. i feel my way through my living, visualization isn't enough, i must feel the clean, the washing away of unwanted parts, see the dirt running from my body like cockaroaches from the light. you might say i'm a feeler. some people think their way through life. i'll bet the thinkers have a lot less scrapes and scratches and bruises, but then again, they probably have more headaches.

"today is the beginning of your new life". that line is supposed to make me feel better about being here, make me forget that i have absolutely no clue how i got here, or why i am cursed. it's not easy being surrounded by people all day and night, wanting to communicate with them, dying for it. but instead, they ignore you, call you dumb, can barely look at you. i hate people sometimes, i hate people for being so blind and so lazy and so damn afraid of me. afraid of me!? i might be missing a few parts, but i'm in no way missing a heart or a mind. i'm just alive as anyone else. i'm just as present. and perhaps this is the curse.

sometimes i try to hate God because i must live this horrid shred of a life. i try to hate Him because He won't let me die. it's not that uncommon of a wish to die, and it's not that difficult to do, but He won't do it. He tells me i should be thankful i was rescued, thankful that someone forced my catatonic fingers 'round a pen and taught me to write, thankful that i'm here, now, relieving some pressure from my mind. and i am thankful to my teachers, the ones brave enough to touch me, the ones strong enough to move my traumatized body to make words, to give me the ability to communicate. my God, it's a mad house in there, in this highly pressurized chamber of my mind.

but everyone suffers, i know because i feel them. and although i hate people but i can't help getting to know them. people trust you with so many secrets when you're mute. you could never tell, even if your body ached for it. yes, i could write it i suppose, but no one would believe me. i have only one arm and no nose. clearly i am a bad person, clearly i am deformed, clearly i should be avoided. unless of course you are on a bus and you just can't bare to keep it in anymore. you have AIDS. you look at me, now we are in this together. me and my disappearing face and you and your disappearing body.

most times i don't even let on that i can write. there's no point. no one asks me how i am doing, how i am feeling. i am a wall and you throw your sorrows against me. and i think i hate you, but even now, i cannot write it in a convincing stroke. i want to believe it to protect myself. why care for those that do not care for you? i am an outcast, yet i know the most about you. this is my madness. i feel too much. i cannot help it. i would like for someone to utter to me once, "thank you" or even, as impossible as it is, "i love you" and i would like to have the tongue to tell, just once, "you are welcome" and "i love you too".