Goddamn Dude, Don't Make Me Cry. I've Cried Enough Today

Goddamn dude, don't make me cry. I've cried enough today

I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.

Here's some hastily thought out ideas for poets: - the way the girl you just met in class mumbles her words like a bubbling brook and has eyes the colour of honey - growing drunk on her whispered words while lying underneath the stars - the way the wind blows through the trees and whispers secrets into the ears of strange men - you're trapped in your body your entire life, your spirit stuck in this decaying sack of flesh, until one day, you find a way out (and it's not death) - joyless love and loveless joy - the echoes of oblivion coming to claim your lost soul - you give up on finding happiness, then one day, she finds you - one day, you wake up and can taste songs - death is tired, he begs you to take his job and you say yes. but, the twist is that you refuse to kill. you watch the world decay for millennia's, maybe even an eternity, every being's eyes becoming hollow and begging you for death, until...

comment things you would would want to read/write a poem on!

forever and always insane about the fact that haunting means "heimsuchen" in german which literally translates to "homeseeking". a haunting is a search for a home you can never return to

Goddamn, love this!

The Raven and the Red Death [cmmission]