- I remember as a child I assumed that there was nothing wrong with the lives of the animals behind glass at the Bronx zoo. That somehow their lives on display gave them enough of a life having been brought out of the wild and subject to a million strangers gazes on a daily basis. So many friends and people they would never see again, Until I found myself inside their cage. The feeling of alienation while simultaneously viewed, taunted, judged, aching in the profound pain of knowing there was nearly nothing more to life. I witnessed furious tigers as a child not understanding their snarling, fuming anger at a world that just wouldn’t leave them the fuck be. It’s only when I find myself on exhibit that I understand their anger, their angst, their existential pain. A box that has become a prison, a hell, a crime.
that same child on display for the vulgar stares, and hate and pain, a sponge for sorrow, apropos of nothing for a never ending downward spiral as the world around screams incredibly loud and extremely close.
If the pain was private perhaps I could continue to deny its existence, I could write it off, I could sweep it under the bars of the exhibit and push it forever into a place where no one could see it.
life on display, echoes that haunt the mind like nightmares that deprive people of sleep while awake. Scars that refuse to heal despite time. I understood why that tiger hated the world, and wanted to shatter the fucking glass, I wanted to free that animal in agony.
ive come many times to the zoo, but it’s relative,
we’re all behind the glass. We’re all inside our own personal hell. And long ago I started to make it crack, but I myself have shattered. I’ve thrown my body screaming wild with the best I’ve ever had, and it’s futile.
[dedicated to my delusions ; ]