I honestly have so much work from in-class prompts that I keep finding it in my notes. Here’s one from workshop last semester.
After death, I will grow and scatter myself and someone will say my name with love for the last time. Will they be male or female or someone in between? Will their declarations of love be for the People, or in front of the clouded bathroom mirror? Will the love they proclaim be eternal, will the next generation know my name as well as their own, will my name die on my lover’s tongue when they take their last breath?
This is my legacy. A death that may persist my Being to the next plane but I suppose I’ll never know if it will be remembered. I don’t have time for flowers and shit, but this is why I write. My legacy is the prose I will leave behind. Should I marry and bear children they will come of me but they will not be me. These words that I leave behind will be my inheritance. I apologize to my future children for admitting this but Nanay knows best.
Our culture will be downloaded and encoded in my words and they will be my Truth. I am that I that I announce. There is beauty in this dark and ugly world and I refuse to let it remain in the shadows.
I know I was banging on about flowers earlier but I suppose this whole exercise is flowers. I like sunflowers. I like anything with the word sun in their name. There’s something so humbling to know that at the inevitable end of the universe, the heat death that awaits us is contained and controlled by that large ball of gas in the sky. We call it the sun. How beautiful that something so far away could control us like an addiction. Like the firm grip of a mother’s hand to her child.
We are all children making steps to our heat deaths. Age moves like a waltz: dancing to a familiar beat. Let the beat drop. Open thyself to the warmth of the sun.
I miss the sun.