I walk through my town and the palpating segments sliced into the fabric of our humanity are on full display. Space is at a premium and the touching of flesh against flesh is an unwanted leftover—the result of waste.
The cataclysmic weaving of humanity is staved — the systems of wood, metal, and concrete prevent any mixing or kind gestures. And I see it being mimicked in my neighborhood - the little open space of my soul.
I walk by my neighbor's new fence, wanting to touch it to see if it's real. With my fingertips stretched out to their limits—I run them along the fence's jagged edges until it carves a canal into the flesh of my fingers.
I holler over to my neighbor and ask for a bandage, but they can't hear me through the wood, metal and concrete. My eyes move along with the blood trickling downward on my fingers, until I become fixated on the pool of loneliness forming on the surface of the pavement.
I can't help but raise the question out loud in my head, "Is my neighbor trying to keep me in or keep me out?"