My research could change the course of history, even if you never hear about it.
I can remember that I had years of waiting before I meant something to anybody. I was just putty for the machine, the earth, clumps of cells waiting for every force in the universe to dictate my existence. Classes and classes upon grades upon time, leaning out to the edge of the cliffs and wondering how long it would take to hit the ground, how long before your brain passes out from fear and your feet become burger.
Spend Christmases in the high tungsten glow of the overhead, tracing minerals between forceps and praying that one day God give us some better fossils in this dung heap. I haven’t cared for the holidays in years, it just reveals who likes to be frivolous with their time. True colors, you can’t spend your lives with these people, i’m willing to sacrifice the non-family life I had. This morning I found dirt, last night I found sand, other words for nothing. But I know it’s almost here for me.
Discovery, that one that’ll make me, put me in conferences with stuffy academics that understand this unfortunate struggle, this debilitating ethic that keeps us forever glued with our eyes to the ground in the caverns, we’re not mining managers but sick children, wishing on literal stones. There’s no money in fake dignified crystal, a necklace can’t change your outlook. It’s only a prayer of time, a testament to humanity’s false ability to explain the science, rationalize what needs not be understood with supposed magic and fortune-telling. This Wicca industry is mass-market wannabe-ism, everybody who actually spends time digging couldn’t care less what the stars have to say about our dreams.
Though I do admit I have some connection with the stones. If not for the mass, that way they caress and lightly scratch your palms when you thumb them. Texture has always been my high, I may as well be blind and my life would mean about the same. One time I used one to trace the skin of my vagina just to see what it would feel like. Bruises and abrasions aside, the effort was futile. Drunk curiosity is my only other sickening vice.
Sitting here at the edge again, watching the winds brush the sun-swept desert tundra, feeling nothing and tasting the lick of the Equator. The sun rising means work, the sun setting means sleep, the turning of the days are just more deadline pressure. I’ve stopped keeping calendars and relegate to tally marks and my underlings’ conversations.
No longer concerned with the nonsense of monotony, one day i’ll earn my place in the pavement.