Just when you think the issue between South and North shouldn't matter anymore,even though you're several continents away from the conflict, there's something familiar about it, racism of a different kind or plain old power struggle that rears its exceedingly ugly head and you just want to run in the other direction as fast and as far away as you can, to nowhere in particular, nowhere you can think of and just hope, believe, that when you choose to turn around and look back, things have changed and the view is different, the threat is gone and the human remains.
One morning you walk out and there is nothing to fear.
Another, nothing more than fear itself.
The steepness of the hill, the thunderheads, the ominous outlook sheltered
deep inside to protect you from the worst case scenario as all life seems to be measured against. Worst to best, with nothing of consequence in between.
That is our depression, our longing, our escape from the moment which seems so ordinary when it is all that we have. How did we arrive here?
The photo on the wall I always wake up to never seems the same. She is still alive, my mother, with or without judgment but always wanting to explain that my life was not the first one lived, nor the last. That there is always a solution to a problem that seems so insurmountable but not always the solution
I am looking for.
Why after all these years am I not satisfied by this?