Honesty

Middle-Eastern music floats in through my window tonight, watery and hypnotic. Everything is different here in Israel, nothing is the same. I’ve been living in a dream world for way too long, keeping life at an arm’s distance. I know if I don’t turn that world into art there’s really no point. The music grows louder; the voices rise and harmonize in the streets. I regret that people missed my joy, I kept it so well hidden deep in my solar plexus. I would cave in my chest as if to hide my heart and conceal my smile with a smirk. It doesn’t matter now, because I’m in the center of things. With a vision of a shimmering coast, traveling truck-caravans, laughing and music I suddenly remember the person I wanted to be, the life I wanted to live. I remember what it’s like to touch, to smell, to breathe. The music is crashing in now and it forces me out of my apartment. There I see the source of the sound: the messiah-mobile. The black van has green, pink, and blue neon tubes and a net of flashing lights attached to its sides. On top of the roof sits two giant lit-up sculptures of crowns. Music is exploding out of the vehicle and the Orthodox Jews are jumping around with the Torah. A man’s voice cries out to God and I see that we’re all just people here, flesh and blood, dancing together in the streets, waiting for rebirth.