Ode to Blind Spot by Teju Cole

July 24, 2018

What are we doing if not fighting to be remembered? I walk, quotidian faces around me, down the same avenues, stepping forcefully, attempting to imprint myself onto the hard concrete. I land on this bench like she once did, and we both stare into deep space. We escape philosophy and search for inspiration in the dark emeralds of this tiny square. What are we if not hollow bodies searching for purpose? We are the same. And so I carve my name around hers with desperate hands trying to become something, the encryption of a being, in this way, I solidify my existence.

Dusk

And when he leaves, I am merely a shadow sinking onto deep soil waiting to be awoken again.

Gateway to H

To be one with God is a battle I’ve wrestled with my entire life. Devoting myself is not easy, and remembering isn’t either. I long to talk to them, but I understand their indifference.

Stuyvesant Square

During my first couple of months in New York, I remember occasionally finding blind spots, places hidden from the big lights and vastness of it all. I quickly realized this is the New York I love, the New York I want. The quietness of the elderly park, the laughter of the children in quiet pristine neighborhoods, the air that somehow feels purer, the silence, and the lack of chaos. I found a safe haven inside you. I think about your history, the openness with which you’ve received me, like a nurturing mother you’ve tended to me. I will never know anything like you, in your corners, I forever long to live.

Falling

The air is thin and the streets are lonely. My ears can’t quite pick up anything, I can’t hear you. The earth is regenerating and my heart is too. It is strange to walk around this circle as if you never touched me. As if I am the same. The truth is I have never felt this far away from myself and so close to you. My leaves are falling and it hurts to know I’ll be new again.