The view of the city as a city is red, orange, and glows with yellow peeking through. It’s beautiful and inspiring like a sunset with the loving space between us warmer than the setting sun. The paints awash in broad streaks, and from the ledge I can see it like pain on a canvas. Dots deep in the gallery’s star piece are burning with rebellion like a self-consuming wildfire, and the pain has become us. It’s the echoes of desperate voices calling out for love or a friend and hanging our faces in hopes that we can one day return from the day and mourn ourselves. The warm crackle of a wintery fire goes with every step towards it. Lifeless and glitching, there’s nothing beautiful. It’s gone.
I hang pictures on my walls and read about history: gladiators slaughter without sound-bites or pics-so-it-didn’t-happen. I appreciate the honesty in fighting to the death and a ruling class labeled as such in the yearbook. It’s on the opposite coast of my own, just a drowning and shark attack away. I don’t know what to think of it anymore than the unshaven or showered pair picking fights on the bus ride home, or misdirected carping about the poke in the ear during the oppressive and mounting financial assault. I know about that saying though, and if when you’re there you do like they do then when you’re here you ship your mind off so you don’t have to.