[cw: graphic violence]
Today, November 1st: Anxieties about transitions loom heavily on our minds: brooding night skies are brought forth earlier and earlier by daylight savings; the glass pane windows downtown that once enticed the eyes of window shoppers hide behind a bastion of nails and plywood to deter potential rioters; the upcoming 2020 United States presidential election decides whether the incumbent remains or is replaced.
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My 20th birthday is imminent, in which I lose any right to blame my angst onto my status as “teenager.” Now, as my last days of being a teen are coming to an end, I cannot help but return to 2013 when they began.
I hate that in the eighth grade I didn’t know the difference between September 11th and 9/11, that something troubling had occurred on that particular day. I do recall knowing some bits and pieces.
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In the spring of 2007, two Ukranian 19-year-olds approach an innocent man sleeping on a bench and repeatedly bludgeon his head with a blunt instrument. News reports reveal this grisly scene occurs only an hour after another victim’s face was smashed in by a hammer. Flashforward six years I stumble across a viral video and curiously flick my fingers across the trackpad to move the cursor over the link.
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Specs of white fall from the sky until winds batter the snow, crisscrossing in all directions, whirling up and down through the night until settling on the ground. Upending the snow globe again, a crack on the side of the cheap plastic dome. Drops of the liquid inside begin to trickle onto my hand. Ew, is this stuff real snow? I scoot over to the sink and peer in once more to check on the scene inside. Safe, you are all still here.
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Do you go on as if you have not just seen a video of a murder? And how did I return to school the following day as if nothing happened? It was just another day, though, of algebra, as if nothing out of the ordinary ever did happen... The pixelated shades of red did not fit neatly alongside numbers and equations but most likely resided insidiously deeper in my mind.
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I had a thought recently. Even something inanimate can be turned into a human-like object. A snowman describes a scenario in which tiny ice crystals are somehow related to a human being with warm, soft flesh.
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Yesterday. The snowstorm wouldn’t have been known to exist had I not walked outside to witness with my own eyes that in the backyard of my childhood home, the tessellating red and pink concrete bricks I remembered like the ceiling of my bedroom had been replaced with a unifying soft white, even and smooth. I fell backward as I had seen others do and so I had done so by instinct, but bracing. Except a layer of clothes had distanced me from snow. I scooped up snow and clasped my gloved fists tightly. Particles moved closer and became more compact. They yielded easily as I decided to wreck them with a tender squeeze, crumpling them into smaller versions of themselves.
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Sibling and sky, sibling and sky, visions of my sister and brother alternate. Smashing its body and head, I will watch them from afar on a squeaky swing set. I manically chortle to myself, emptying my giddy as successive spurts of hot breath from my mouth. I don’t recall whether I had told my siblings to destroy him or if I had started it first. Our giggles are cut by a “Hey what are you doing?!” from a man I don’t know. Walking down his front porch across from the park, he will shout, “I had to wake up early before work so I could build that with my son for my wife!” I will not recall when this occurred, before or after the videos I watched. I believe that it was before.
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A video begins with a man lying on his stomach. Stepping into the frame, the executioner wastes no time gliding a knife along his neck. I am curious again and I want to put images to words.
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