I Am Ezra (Complete)

Memories

 I am the one who travels with nothing. My world is an endless amalgamation of numbers and predisposed lines of code that have been hardwired into my head. The stars are out tonight, and I think they are beautiful. As I reach out to grasp them, I yearn to melt into their milky exposure. Distant memories come flooding back into my brain, a juxtaposition of loneliness and energy. I wasn't exactly sure how to register them at the time. A woman staring into my eyes with a deep intimacy, a man laughing and smiling down at me, and a small animal creeping along the ground. I am the one who talks to no one, and responds to myself. These memories are just smoke, waiting to dissipate, and creep down back into the depths of my consciousness. The exceptional form of my being still remains obsolete to me even this day. I am nothing without my spirit. Every scuff of my shoe, every gust of wind through my hair, or every tear in my eye. Why should they matter to anyone, or more importantly the vast expanse of the universe? This thought begs even more questions from me. If those don't matter, does anything else matter? I can sit at my desk, churning out number after number, or even lay under the night sky and flesh out another poem about how obsolete I feel. But it will never matter to something like gravity. Gravity will pull it down, it will act like it cares, but it never doesn. In the end the scrap of paper simply rests on the ground, with nothing left to do but wait patiently to be destroyed. My name is Ezra, and I walk the streets alone.

The street stretches far away, out of my line of sight. It seems that I will be walking this road forever. This is the only time where I feel free, walking down the sidewalk, looking up at the stars. It is the only time where I feel completely and totally free. The world around me is a chaotic mess, there is no one willing to love, and no one willing to stand on two feet for once. So, for that, I must pity the citizen. I pity the vast expanse of buildings and traffic around me, for that is what will lead to my destruction. It is what will lead to the eventual decay of my mind, slowly rotting and melting away after years of work, and work, and work. This is why I have the plan. It could take months, or years, but eventually I will escape from this realm. I will avenge my spirit which has long since passed, and I will live out it's legacy with a loud bang. The world and the universe all around me will know when I walk, or when I speak, or laugh. I will be someone, not just numbers programmed into an endless array of a bustling crowd of people. When I die, I want to die with meaning. I want to be somebody when I die, not just a soulless husk. The streets at night are so calm, so peaceful. I close my eyes and inhale the sweet fresh air, it fills my nostrils and my skin becomes cooler. When I open my eyes again, I see the stars above. So far away, so distant. Why would someone create me to be this way, why would someone birth me just to work and die. I do not know, nor will I probably ever.

The human race is just another symptom of biological circumstance. That is something that I have come to realize. The only thing that matters is making something of the existence you have while you have it. A tree crosses paths with me, and I rest my hand on it. The rough texture of the bark pressed against my skin and gave me a strange feeling. Another memory shot across my eyes. A tree that I used to climb, a large oak that seemed to touch the sky to my childlike mind. I had a deep adoration for nature, and I would one day return to it. I want to feel the wild breeze shooting through my body, I want to feel the ground pressing against my back. Not the flat asphalt, that is abundant in this city, but a rough grassy terrain. I want to run through a vast expanse of grassland, not a care in the entire universe. I want to swim in a sea of stars, and accept my death willingly. For when I die, that will be the most magical day of my life. I don't really believe in a 'God' in a classical sense. But the programmer of a massive simulation on a universal scale? That is something I can agree with. And hell, maybe that programmer even loves me and everyone else on the earth. But considering all of the things I have had to go through, that seems improbable. There is a certain memory that sometimes comes to me, deep within the night when I cannot sleep. I am standing between rows and rows of church pews. A little girl is next to me, blonde hair flowing down to the center of her back, and dressed in her sunday best. Her face is round, and when she smiles it appears that the world lights up. I don't remember her name, but maybe if I tried hard enough. If I really reached out, I could grasp it. The sunlight streaming through the stain glassed windows, the feeling of the woman's hand grasping mine. Her scowl shooting down at me. It's as if I can only remember that scowl, and the wrinkles surrounding it. Her slender figure and the way she chewed. The rest is completely ambiguous to me, it's like a blank screen, or a picture loading onto a screen. But the child perplexes me most, obviously in these memories I was a child. I can vaguely remember her, her beautiful blonde pigtails glowing in the sunlight as she ran through the grass, or played the piano.