After I first watched the Titanic movie, I would build replicas of the ship, and break the model in half with my hands, sending loose Legos flying free, carpeting the sanctuary in which I’d play God.
When the twin towers fell; Hell, they fell. They crumbled on a macro-normous scale even the most comprehensive could not comprehend. They still shake the Earth, and will forever. I’d reenact the pictures on the news. They didn’t feel real. They couldn’t be real for me yet, not until I dug through my chest, selecting only the white bricks and stacked the up as high as I could with what I had–Two towers the same height, one with an antenna, and I broke them both in two with my hands. I transformed peaceful downstairs den into a field of little white tombs,. It appeared as the graveyard memorializing the countless lives lost in Normandy, except much more scattered. My parents told me to stop it–I understood.
I built a model of The Battle of the Bulge, complete with snow, and dirt, and rust, and burnt edges and bloodied bodies and twisted metal. The battle perpetuated in a single instance of time, held static by plastics and dried glue. Nothing ever changed but dust. Soldiers on the brink of death were suspended, never succumbing. Guns all fully loaded and constantly blazing. Fate was irrelevant. One day I decided it would be a much more appropriate representation if I were to douce the scene in gasoline and let nature take its course, and letting it decide what was to be consumed, and what was to be spared. The outcome of it all had nothing to do with justice. So I watched, videotaped actually, as the foil lined box of little lives destroyed itself, and all the plastic, Allied and Axis, melted into one indistinguishable puddle of petroleum.
All of it was, once. Then now, is was.