dispatch from the tourism board of a liminal space
the perpetual shouts, the dying businesses—the ache continues and never lets up. he doesn’t know who he is and concludes that his heart looks like a main drag in a college town—like the unhoused guy who always asks him for anarchist zines, the buskers at the underfunded public park, the scent of questionable food. he shouts his revelations to the wind, having not transitioned or left the house in years. he relates to the toddlers at the bus stop who get deeply loud, unsure where they are. he too wonders if he’s arrived yet. he envies the drunk undergrads in their detachment from their own well-being, their conviction to do the dumbest thing possible regardless of their surroundings. he watches them badly slow-dance in the indie game store and get kicked out. he wonders what’s wrong with people. in his darkest moments he makes small talk with the jehovah’s witnesses who literally always look really cold, even at the height of summer. he wonders if cisgenderism is a form of weather. he sits down and watches the throngs outside the childrens’ museum, the protests on the capitol steps. he envies people who effortlessly build community without meaning to, the two toddlers making small talk, the shouting crowds that have to include at least one meetcute. every downtown walk in every city entails the taste of decent boba and less good pizza, the way the taro root bursts on his tongue as some rando yells at him, the surprising way that, at night, the stars and people seem to flicker into formation.
