So, this “time” thing. A pulse that circulates through the crackling branches of our lives. A state of being that carries an array of faces that smile, frown, cringe and chuckle at your various decisions. That’s what time does, it reacts to you, to your route of being. There comes a point of this cascade of a watch’s tick where you find a degree of comfort, and a contented state.
Right now. Right here.
Below is a poem, unstructured, a subliminal view of my purpose in this pocket of “time” we dwell in.
So, shall we?
The freckled boy is ten years old.
The world is a collage of crayons and a scribbled signature of discovery to his brightly flavoured eyes.
He gazes out of his bedroom window, assessing the gifted scenery with an adolescent precision.
The days are laboured.
Skies are a tinge of bronze with a splatter of purple under the clouds, a tiresome evening.
She’s just dragged her overworked legs through the front door, carrying an unwavering glow undeterred by twelve-hour shifts.
She hugs the freckled boy, squeezing his midriff with a maternal energy.
Their cheeks touch in a transferral of family affection.
The freckled boy looks at her fatigue-filled eye lids and hastily marvels in her sensed smile, conquering selflessness.
All For him, for her freckled faced boy.
They embrace, and the smooth simmer of a evening supper settles the small apartment air…
With that being said, tomorrow the sun will rise above the sleepy yawns of optimistic hearts. A new generation will rise in the morning with a fresh sparkle in their irises and itching limbs clenched to the hope of a life changing endeavour.
That, fortunately, is our generation. One that represents the sprouting seeds once planted by our folks.
Blossoming. Under the tender air of equality and privilege.
I, For one, was made for a time like this. That’s what her timeless majesty Princess Fate said.