#bleedingshoulder

I don’t remember the words, only the gift.

It was an exchange of information, as nuanced and ancient as the marking of the stars and ascribing to them deities and demons.

It was high school. It was a small place where one could learn as soon as they could walk. A certain diagnosis of being deficient resulted in my nerves and senses to subtly crackle with activity after I swallowed a pill every morning and afternoon.

Consequently, when I wasn’t filled with venom over the things people do without trying, and the things they do when they are I would talk. Between classes, to teachers and kids willing to listen, I would talk. My geometry teacher, a good man to whom I owe much, listened one specific time, about the things I’ve read. He asked if I had read this one book.

I had not, so he gave me his copy.

It was an unassuming thing, a little white hardcover one could fit in a jacket pocket or a purse. on the front was the title, in that 80’s style that ached to appear like it was from the future. the cover looked like a riot of static colored purple and blue. It was only later that I realized it was in the shape of a man.

I opened it, and like that, my mind felt opened. I could not only see, but I had learned how to see at the same time. I saw worlds that would be, that were already here, just not evenly distributed, to crib a line from the writer. I saw lines of thought, information, and connection with everything from that point. the chemistry that governed my mind had been lit up, processing the world in a way that wasn’t forced on me. When I had finished the book a week later, I knew elation and beauty and rapturous excitement for what can be, good and bad.

It was a story, and it began with fifteen words:

“The Sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”

can’t know until u try it.

zat John Hurt?