Old Shanghai was dying, losing between three and six streets a day. The modern city was strangling it among its many skyscrapers. Soon, in a few years at most, it will have disappeared. Yet, through
...
[+]
Gabriel sits beside me and asks if the pain in my chest is worth losing god for.
He doesn't understand, that's ok.
I pull out a clump of feathers.
It's not about the pain at all, it's about what it makes.
He thinks for a moment, asks me this, now:
Why turn myself into a monster?
I do not answer, plucking white feather after white feather.
It hurts, but so is the action of uncovering.
I don't know if it's worth it, sometimes,
but I can't do anything else.
Bound to the unmaking, the remolding.
I can't do anything else.
I tell him:
All you see is the fruit rotting.
He says he does not understand.
The fruit fermenting, I clarify.
Not the jam, just the crushing.
Not the creation. Not the wine.
And to think,
Jesus only started with water.
He doesn't understand, that's ok.
I pull out a clump of feathers.
It's not about the pain at all, it's about what it makes.
He thinks for a moment, asks me this, now:
Why turn myself into a monster?
I do not answer, plucking white feather after white feather.
It hurts, but so is the action of uncovering.
I don't know if it's worth it, sometimes,
but I can't do anything else.
Bound to the unmaking, the remolding.
I can't do anything else.
I tell him:
All you see is the fruit rotting.
He says he does not understand.
The fruit fermenting, I clarify.
Not the jam, just the crushing.
Not the creation. Not the wine.
And to think,
Jesus only started with water.
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