Thoughts on a Monday. But not this one.

Walking.
Getting away as far as possible, escaping from what I have grown up with, what I have been taught, what I can remember.
I think about my BFF in elementary school, Tina. I always thought I would leave first, because that is the life when one is used to moving. But she left first.
Now everyone has left, somehow. It's not easy making new friends, but also somehow, it is ok. The whole small talk aspect of it pissed me off, but I see myself as a Zwitter: alone and in crowds, part and yet not, entirely.

Today was a bad day. Normally your presence would have saved it. Holding you would have eased it.
Now mourning, c'est d'être vivant quand la vie même est morte, it's like being alive when life itself has died, c'est de respirer quand tout souffle s'est enfuit, it's like breathing when all breath is gone, c'est sentir trop, like feeling too much about everything.

Walking I saw
the lady in the car waving at me for not letting me walk past. Fuck you.

There is a teenage girl with black tights and shirt jumping in tandem on trampoline with a little girl in a yellow dress. I hear the see-saw of the springs. Un peu d'air sur terre. A moment of not being bound to the earth and its restrictions.

Then the varkhond barks.
A second later the bubbling of a child's laugh from behind a tall wall.
People are standing on the corner, careful to look away as I approach. No eye contact here.
The heavy breathing of an older man jogging only in tiny blue shorts. A short wave.

Congregating in the street. It is strange to see after years of hiding behind enormous gates, "Good fences make good neighbours".
A dad with a huge drooping-eyelid-dog, the two boys barefoot on bikes, circling him.
Walking and crying.
A little boy playing with two pavement specials waves at me.
A grey cat sleeping, blending into the pavement.

Now, the boy kicking the soccer ball home, uphill. I would just pick it up and carry it instead.
Three men around a cellphone, watching me, talking about me in a tongue I cannot understand. But I feel the words. Mens weet altyd.

Two older men, politely greeting. They must have known the restrictions the pass/past laws. I am wondering if we still choose to live in our own race, or if it's mostly dependent on means.

Then, I am home.






This is how I think. It is never just one language.