Moving at Eurostar speed, electric posts, shades of grey, aquarelle leaves and dark tunnels, in no time I’ll reach the motherland.
Mother land, Mother Earth, root of identities etched by fading memories, I long for her. She, who reminds us to live with all our senses and roars unexpectedly, leaving us abandoned, powerless, and shattered. Despite tumultuous heat waves, crocodile tears, and avalanches, we forget her, the mother ship, yet we witness her vulnerability, perplexed.
Children in the garden of Eden we play, ravaging the fruits of her labor, and affirming their irrelevance believing we matter more than she. With our cocooned vision, plastic, lithium, phosphate, and coal, we deny and voice the needs of innocent masses. A greediness skillfully veiled behind self-inflicted addictions; we beg for the resurrection of reason.
What if it were the long invisible thread that binds us?
Ominous orchestrated pathogens playing Russian roulette on those who could tell history, those who lived through wars and famine, we watch selfishly, thinking “it won’t get me, I’m not vulnerable”. But Russian roulette is just that. No statistics, no false reports, no fairytales will spare us. It’s either me or the one next to me, finding the invisible thread, slowly invading our breath, and our delicate branches, tearing us apart.
Beneath my feet, crackle the leaves of life decomposing, as I walk aimlessly hypnotized by the smells that once were familiar, giving meaning to a world so far away.
Pagodas, Buddhas, incense and ancient chants, Maseratis, and Lalique leave me dazed and perplexed.
The tree-lined park welcomes lost souls, with a heated breeze, patients strolling in striped pajamas, cameras watching our every move, all seems normal.
Meanwhile, my labored breath, tears flowing uncontrollably, reminded of your deafening absence, the memories become faint. Despair shrieks for comfort, a gaze, soft skin, blueish veins and bloodshot eyes, I see you, warning me. It’s a matter of weeks. La mort vient a grands pas.
Incredulous, I murmur “no, you’re having a bad day”
Now, I’m having a bad day, a bad hour, a bad year. And I walk another 12,000 steps, with my fellow strangers whose language I do not speak, pretending this time, that I have a place to go to. Cameras following our every move, I know they’re watching, but you’re not.