Postmarked

by Makola

We were walking across the ground after the bell rang. I usually take the ramp since I like being surrounded by kids. I like kids. They make me happy. But then I like her. And she makes me happy. So I broke what was a regular feature of a regular school day – just for her. I don’t think she noticed. It’s okay, it took me a long time myself.

“You don’t blog anymore.”

It was a quiet statement. Not a question, not a complaint or even an accusation. I would be deserving of all of the above.

The thing is, this “blog” has evolved into personal rather than what was initially thought of as political. It has become a mirror to my life. I’m pretty sure that just by going through the archives you can tell so much about me which I might not have even intended on revealing.

Problem is, that shouldn’t concern you. In the grand scheme of things, it really shouldn’t.

What you could worry over is the ratio of hugs to gunshots in our world. The names (and NOT numbers) of missing people at this very moment in time. The economy, the wars, the hunger, the pain, the homes burnt to the ground and the trees razed every singly day. Every. Single. Day.

You see, when we start to obsess over our own lives, when we delude ourselves that our problems are unique to ourselves and when we stalk the lives of those we think have it easy… oh that’s when we’re in for trouble. Person A is a celebrity, her life glossed over in photographs and late night interviews (in our case, morning shows). Person A, for one sheer human moment, decides to do what is incredibly normal. Even if it is the simple act of falling while walking. That’s when their world erupts. Like a volcano that has been seething to burst through. The interrogations, the endless paparazzi. The phone-calls which say “well you overworked yourself”, “it’s going to be okay, you know”, “i cant imagine what it is like for you.” The times when Person A just starts questioning who Person A really, truly is. Is she what the picture tells her, is she who her mum always said she was, or is she what she becomes when she’s far from home. When she hangs up the phone, it’s the last comment which makes her laugh.

Of course you can’t imagine what it is like. But should that stop you from trying? Will burying yourself in statistics hide the fact that no one in those refugee camps slept the night you thought the world was ending? Will it change the belief that they did?

That’s why in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it does not matter how Makola spent her day, what colour she was wearing, if she smiled, and what she had for lunch.

What matters so much is how it’ll be like that Day when the world truly has spun to a stop, when each word said or written will be out there in bold for all to see, when the earth shall testify for the souls that walked upon it.

And perhaps that is why I keep writing. I’m not even halfway where I would like to be. I don’t always have an answer for all the pain and heartache in the world and sometimes my duas are quite incoherent. But should that stop me from trying?

On that Day, we’ll know. That Day, we’ll understand.

Advertisements