Words cut.
And she held the knife.
“I HATE AMERICA.”
Yes, in CAPS.
5:30 am. July 4th, 2015.
The Wolf Pack was settled in the car and heading down I-95 S.
Six lanes, devoid of traffic.
Eerie. A post-apocalyptic moment on I-95. Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” Gray skies, light rain spitting on windshield. No Ash.
I HATE AMERICA.
“She” is Anonymous on the inter-tunnel. She repeats IT over and over, in Caps, a vitriolic cadence wrapped around each of America’s stated ills.
We’re two miles in at Mianus River Park.The terrain is hilly. I’m a roller coaster, with slow climbs up, and gravity pushing faster and faster downward. No. You are a Burro. A Burro carrying an oversized load with its belly dragging. You strain with each step. Your breathlessness, is a suffering inhale-exhale far less refined than the hee-haw of the Burro. Sad eyes drooping, staring down at hooves tiptoeing around rocks, roots and ruts.
I HATE AMERICA.
I read the post on Friday. The words still fresh, blood spilled. Words coming from an American, mid-20s. A Woman. Continue reading “Running. With America.”
