The 21st Century Stranger
The 21st Century Stranger
By Jax Soon-Legaspi
Camus was right
when he told us we don’t feel things
until they are ending.
Or even until they are ended.
You go to a concert and the shaking doesn’t start until
your hands are on the keyboard.
You don’t feel the burn until
your feet are on the pyre.
Friends get on flights and I don’t understand that they are leaving,
like some kind of child. Like some kind of dog believing
they are only gone for a short while. When
do I realise?
When does this benign indifference end?
When does the sun
beat down on my back, and draw the sweat
unwillingly from my face?
When the flight tracker tells me
they have landed safely, when I am taking the train home,
when it has been a month
and I miss having lunch together.
For two months before my graduation, I consoled
the emotionally inclined among us
as they reminisced on times
not yet past.
On my final night, when we were sweating in uniforms
on dance floors, I looked up
and saw the dimmed lights through closed eyelids.
Red. Blue. Green.
Leisurely slow, drifting past.
Head thrown back in prayer, Mr. Brightside
the solemn church hymn. Limbs flailing around me
as if in rapture. It was in this death row jail cell
that I felt, felt, FELT. I could have screamed but I did not need to.
The train is a good place to cry.
The familiar stations drift past as we leave
our tears behind on each platform, each
a friend waving goodbye.
