I hate
that change means we
lose that piece of what used to
be. Understandably not entirely,
but do you know what I mean? I’ve
been flattened, condensed into a blurb
of who people would prefer me to be.
Cutouts mock me, game recognizing game.
“Take a chance on me” I want to yell, but your face
remains unchanged. All you are concerned with is clear
imagery. Envious of my complexity? No? You should be.
You might not be able to tell, observing my very
fragile, young, flimsy exterior, but I have tons
of stories. Life experiences. Journeys. Moments
of growth. All varied and stored within me. Too
much lies within me, roiling underneath my skin.
Fissures of stress and anxiety give way to the undeniable
truth that I’m dying. That we’re all dying. And I might
have nothing to show for it — not for me, not for anyone
else. All my art is here, but I can take none of it with me
I don’t know if I would even if it was a possibility,
but if all I have is your perception of me
and lousy but meaningful art I will
not be able to take with me, where
is my legacy? Am I doomed to only
be remembered as how people may
have thought of me? That’s not very
fair now, is it? So now one interaction
exhibits the real me? Maybe I really
do exist in 2D? I mean, I’ve changed
and you see me this way and I can
not change that because you won’t
let me, but why? Why won’t you let
me? I can prove it. I can prove my
worth to you. I- I want to exist
as more within your eyes. Not
just this flat image…
Flat as Flat
Stanley.
