It was 12 in the night and I was about to go to sleep after my mandatory-can’t-miss-it call with someone just a few miles away — “Security… ego… I don’t care”, words that came rushing through my window by a group of angry men I had never met and I don’t hope to ever make their acquaintance.
“Now? Seriously?” I thought to myself as peered outside my bedroom window and strained to make sense of the mumbo-jumbo that the wind seemed to carry, a load that was unnecessary but one that required to be moved from one place to another. “If only they were arguing in English, I could have at least understood what the ruckus is all about…” I chuckled as I turned to my sister.
I am a terrible fighter; I mean I can and I do ‘fight’ for my dreams, myself etc, but when it comes to being loud, saying mean stuff and waving your hands up and down like a drowning man trying to catch the eye of a lifeguard… I am terrible.
As I tried to fall asleep, I was reminded of the times when I have had nasty fights, times when words were said and, like an indelible mark from a faulty pen on a white surface, could never be erased. If you want to see the ugly in someone, hear them at their meanest and the fragile thing inside of you called soul will shirk.
I finally fell asleep, thinking about souls and how they might have stood near the edge (of some water perhaps?) and looked down below, at us and shuddered. With feet dangling just above the surface, they might have feared about what was to become of them, how in just a few minutes they were going to be in a world that would allow them to live, but they will find themselves slowly dying within.