Week 389 // The Fixed Point

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The man on the bus unprovoked
Raised his fists to the driver
And the people in stages
Cast eyes to the fixed point inside them

Why don’t we look away look away?
Why don’t we come back here another time?
Think we should look away look away
Why don’t we come this way another time?

The light through the rain
Looks the same as the place I was raised in
The house down the street
Looks the same as the houses in my town

Why don’t we look away look away?
Why don’t we come back here another time?
Think we should walk away look away
Why don’t we come this way another time?

Nobody said I was any different
Everybody says that we’re all the same

Notes
I grew up far from here in a Boston suburb, and lived there again in my twenties for a time as I sorted some things out. It’s a nice place, but a very different place from where I live these days. Like many transplants from far and wide who share my zip code, I bring with me a certain point of view and a sense of otherness that I doubt I will ever shed. It’s not a bad thing. I feel increasingly comfortable in my surroundings, having lived here for nearly five years. Still, many times each day I am aware that I am an outsider, and it doesn’t only happen when I encounter something unfamiliar to me. Rebecca pointed out the silence outside our window the other night as we lay in bed. Far from the persistent clatter of Manhattan, fortunate Brooklynites can sometimes experience a sustained moment of calm. I breathed deep in the quiet, because It felt like home. The familiarity seemed out of place.

~M.E.

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