At once, we discover the world and we run from it. Is this life?
Even at six. When we would sneak into small-town alleys. Hiding from dinnertime and rules and hand washings. When we would scale concrete walls to throw stones the size of cantaloupes to the ground. A gunshot echo splitting them open—revealing the secrets of the world: crystal sandpaper, seams of white and seams of gold.
Then late afternoon. Bruised boyhood legs leaving long long shadows. The greens become more green. The blues become more blue.
We knew the questions even then. We could feel them in the way we stretched to climb up, the way we stretched to drop down. Questions that would never wash off. Must we always shout as the sun goes down? Must we always hide when we play?
Must we always shatter our world to understand it?