They Tried To Burry Me

I was standing all alone when an old man called, “Young man stop standing. You’re too young to rise!” So I crouched on the dirt and kept my head low.

Then a lady approached me and told me she loved me. I loved her too. She said she wanted us, so she dug us a home and in we went. It didn’t take long ’til she no longer knew, and she wanted out of the pit. I offered my back to her to step on, which she promptly used.

Alone in my hole, some drunkards came and said to me, “You’re home’s not so great but we can fix it!” And they pushed me in deeper and pissed in my pit.

I was happy to see a young priest, young enough to still want to prove himself. But he called me unclean and ordered my hole covered.

Now my hole was dark.

As the plates slid, I felt myself sinking. Deeper and deeper. Lower and lower. Completely buried, surrounded by the skeletons of others forsaken.

And just when I had resigned, I felt the wind. I looked around me and saw color. I was out and I was free. They had dug me so deep I came out on top – of the other side.

Tired

The sound of rain and Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor, Op. 72 No.1 (they always have need to choose difficult names) is playing in the background, and, like every night this year, I am tired.

The Faces That Haunt Me

Yesterday, on the way to work, I saw a very disturbing scene. A few cars in front of me, a motorcycle had nipped the corner of a car (an old car at that). Out of the car rose a tall and rather big man who was obviously mad. He walked over to the motorcycle driver, started shouting at him, punch him, push him and his bike to the ground, and pummel him some more.

No one stopped him.

Not even I.

There were traffic officers standing a few steps away, and there were drivers and passengers in cars waiting for the traffic to move, bot no one helped him.

I remember driving past the guy on the motorcycle. He seemed jarred. Who wouldn’t be? Who expects to get beaten up at 9am when driving to work?

I remember his face. I remember it well. I remember his face along with the other faces that have marked my life. The homeless man Angelito, the face of a kid in the squatters of Shaw that I saw when I was 6 years old, and the other faces of people I’ve hurt – even the ones I was supposed to have loved. I remember these faces, their eyes, their smiles, or frowns, their tears, their souls exposed…

There is so much pain in the world. There is so much hurt. I’m haunted by the fact: I have caused so much of both.