meandering soul

»Am Ende kommt meist sowas Absurdes wie ewige Liebe.«

This? I’ve done this before.

  • 5 years ago veröffentlicht
  • Erwartete Lesezeit: 03:12 min
When they bombed Hiros­hima, the explo­sion formed a mini-super­nova so every living animal, human or plant that recei­ved direct contact with the rays from that sun was instantly turned to ash. And what was left of the city soon follo­wed. The long-lasting damage of nuclear radia­tion caused an entire city and its popu­la­tion to turn into powder. When I was born, my mom says I looked around the whole hospi­tal room with a stare that said, „This? I've done this before.“ She says I have old eyes. When my Grandpa Genji died, I was only five years old, but I took my mom by the hand and told her, „Don't worry, he'll come back as a baby.“ And yet, for someone who's apparently done this already, I still haven't figu­red anything out yet. My knees still buckle every time I get on a stage. My self-confi­dence can be measu­red out in teas­po­ons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth. But in Hiros­hima, some people were wiped clean away, leaving only a wrist­watch or a diary page. So no matter that I have inhi­bi­ti­ons to fill all my pockets, I keep trying, hoping that one day I'll write a poem I can be proud to let sit in a museum exhi­bit as the only proof I exis­ted. My parents named me Sarah, which is a bibli­cal name. In the origi­nal story, God told Sarah she could do some­thing impos­si­ble and she laughed, because the first Sarah, she didn't know what to do with impos­si­ble. And me? Well, neit­her do I, but I see the impos­si­ble every day. Impos­si­ble is trying to connect in this world, trying to hold onto others while things are blowing up around you, knowing that while you're spea­king, they aren't just waiting for their turn to talk—they hear you. They feel exactly what you feel at the same time that you feel it. It's what I strive for every time I open my mouth—that impos­si­ble connec­tion. There's this piece of wall in Hiros­hima that was comple­tely burnt black by the radia­tion. But on the front step, a person who was sitting there blocked the rays from hitting the stone. The only thing left now is a perma­nent shadow of posi­tive light. After the A-bomb, specia­lists said it would take 75 years for the radia­tion-dama­ged soil of Hiros­hima City to ever grow anything again. But that spring, there were new buds popping up from the earth. When I meet you, in that moment, I'm no longer a part of your future. I start quickly beco­ming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share your present. And you, you get to share mine. And that is the grea­test present of all. So if you tell me I can do the impos­si­ble, I'll proba­bly laugh at you. I don't know if I can change the world yet, because I don't know that much about it—and I don't know that much about rein­car­na­tion either, but if you make me laugh hard enough, some­ti­mes I forget what century I'm in. This isn't my first time here. This isn’t my last time here. These aren’t the last words I’ll share. But just in case, I’m trying my hardest to get it right this time around.
Sarah Kay