What does a boy know but what’s in front of his face? The soft grass on the front lawn. Summer. Cars and trucks and the tit. Rain. What does a boy know but what he can remember? It was cold last night and people were arguing. Cars and trucks and the tit. There was no rain last night.
These are the sharpest that his mind will ever be for he had no words for them but remembers. If it is said that language is a curse for not being able to capture an essence then what can it be said of the same that nightmares get trapped in words and drop to the soil and filter back up to the clouds to come down again? A lover is remembered in words, that lost. The soft hand of the mother is remembered in words, that lost. But so are the marks of the inevitable future for the boy who is caught at the wrong and slight curve of the massive beast of history. Of which there are many. Of which are born again almost as much as the boy. These etches are never lost.
It is the boy’s wont that he will gravitate towards violence. Some will say that it is societal pressure but when they speak they do not listen to the fact that they ARE societal. They speak as an Oak on the shore but are leaves in the river. A big river been running mighty since the rain fell on the boy’s future. He of the downturned leaf meant to dip and remain submerged in the stream until a head comes up, his own, and races for the stem. To guide it, you see, but that is the myth of the river. The myth of one in the river is that guidance is there at all. The Oak gods smile and they laugh. The boy is a man upon hearing that perfect laughter. He will make another then.
