Day Dreamer
The easy drone of the lecturer's voice slowly drifted me away to thoughts; crazy, mental visualizations about where I could be, where I would be, where I am not. Afloat on a gray bubble, I visit my country's clear bluest blue water, bowing and bobbing to the quiet cool of the day, feeling the sun bounce off the sands' tight brown ass. I am home.
I breathe it all in, never have I appreciated a mass of geographic definition like this. My feet stretch, my toes curl in, almost guilty, I feel the red gritty powdered dirt kiss me. Big gusts of red veils swirl around, covering all, leaving nothing but itchy wet eyes. Further sniffs carry wafts from blocked sewer pipes, inhaling, aaaaah, release, pheeeeew! As the smell teases the noses of the middle class, working hero, quietly, they damn the governments, quickly, they make faces, without fuel, they drive off as if poverty's stench was far removed.
With the sun beating down on me, throat stifled dry, I try to find my way home, away from these considerations that flood my mind, I am thinking of home after all, where is the green I miss? The food, the colorful bright faces, (stained teeth, swollen bellies, NGO misguided ads, happy faces, unknowing faces, the AIDS-worn faces), where is it, where are they? I am seeing this in my daydream, but why? Don't I miss home, or is this what home is?
I try to find my way home, my mother screams into the phone ' kunotu nkutali paja, mwaiwala ?' ( I am so far away from you, do you forget this fact?) The clutter is devastating, did I leave this behind? Was I left behind? Are all my replacements tarnished pottery, am I replacement, languishing, then steadily vanishing back to the mud, from which I came? or is all this, the experience of novelty...
I breathe it all in, never have I appreciated a mass of geographic definition like this. My feet stretch, my toes curl in, almost guilty, I feel the red gritty powdered dirt kiss me. Big gusts of red veils swirl around, covering all, leaving nothing but itchy wet eyes. Further sniffs carry wafts from blocked sewer pipes, inhaling, aaaaah, release, pheeeeew! As the smell teases the noses of the middle class, working hero, quietly, they damn the governments, quickly, they make faces, without fuel, they drive off as if poverty's stench was far removed.
With the sun beating down on me, throat stifled dry, I try to find my way home, away from these considerations that flood my mind, I am thinking of home after all, where is the green I miss? The food, the colorful bright faces, (stained teeth, swollen bellies, NGO misguided ads, happy faces, unknowing faces, the AIDS-worn faces), where is it, where are they? I am seeing this in my daydream, but why? Don't I miss home, or is this what home is?
I try to find my way home, my mother screams into the phone ' kunotu nkutali paja, mwaiwala ?' ( I am so far away from you, do you forget this fact?) The clutter is devastating, did I leave this behind? Was I left behind? Are all my replacements tarnished pottery, am I replacement, languishing, then steadily vanishing back to the mud, from which I came? or is all this, the experience of novelty...
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