There’s a man. Imagine him. He’s leaning on a fence, shirtless and weary. He seems wise near the eyes but his impatient feet suggest insidiousness. He’s marked with dried mud and maybe some very deep but quickly healing cuts from the tree branches, most likely, or perhaps the birds. Okay. I’m not telling you the whole truth. It was definitely the birds. Imagine these cuts and scratches, dry and riddled now, but tender to the touch. He’s certain he did not offend the birds but he’s uncertain whether his complacency was construed as equal to said offence. Picture this. Picture the man leaning on the crisscrossing metal wires, waiting. The birds are gone but other things are coming. He doesn’t know specifically what but he knows it will come for him. You know this too, because I have told you. The man says nothing.
There’s never not something that has been displaced, marginalized. There’s never not something that when feeling pressed to the wall to a place with no room left to run gathers its numbers, gathers its forces and turns savagely on its oppressor, turns viciously and without inhibition even on those who merely look like its oppressor. Do you catch my meaning? Can you imagine the scene I’m explaining?
How much of the world makes sense to you? What does it mean to be a hero, to be a human? The man thinks about his heart, it beats, it beats normally. Earlier it did not beat normally. Think about your own heart. Is it beating normally? Listen. I’ll give you a long moment.
How is your heart? Do you remember the man, the one on the fence, shirtless and scarred, with the normally beating heart? He’s not real, Take him out of the story but leave the story. Take him out. Leave the story. Do you catch my meaning? Do you?"