Perhaps
I always knew that freedom is a precious treasure, that in its most intrinsic roots it’s self-defending, protecting the individual without obstacle; that it had no eyes for the color of skin, status quo or nationality. I always knew that freedom offered response and refuge without asking questions, injecting a feeling of foundation, of grounding, whatever its principles.
…I always understood this. Until I tripped among the pages pulled among the darkness of, not one, but thousands of histories in which this freedom has been silenced, forgotten and insipid, diluted as fine sand in the air, dressed in a silence as penetrable as an abyss without echo nor resonance, left to the side with only tears of impotence across its shadows, and a future of fear.
In this moment, I realized that poverty is more than a mouth without bread or a cold evening. It’s to be invisible, a victim of a system painted in indifference and excuses, the vapor of confusion shields my eyes and I saw how dignity has lost its wings, become lost in desperation.
I wished to identify the ‘responsible’, throw a stone, run in the other direction…perhaps to flee or ignore. I am not a heroin, but I do have a voice and perhaps my opinion matters. Perhaps my actions and my words will fall into hands that will fill themselves with this reality and act.
Perhaps.
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