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We seem to be living the blur yet again. We seem to be walking the same damn line. Take me back 10 years. Take me back to the summer where we house hunted, where we ran naked through our pockets in search of pennies to pay for a home.

Shelter is not just an aluminium sheet anymore, the rain seeps in, orders. The mattress you sleep on today has a story, it was stolen. Hungry hands grabbed it away, a bachelor turned it into a wedding bed, and then threw it away when a baby was born. When your baby was born, 18 years ago, was your home small? Or was it large, was it too big to hold? The feeling of having to be a home for another being? Another life you held in the palm of your hand, you would be the hand that fed it, you would be the brush that painted the smile on its face, you would take it to school and help it live.

You would show it the world, a world that was too ugly to be rolled into a diploma, you showed her the chasm between theory and practise. You broke the sound barriers when you educated her with those words.

When i write, i talk at a thousand people at the same time, to a hundred people in a single glance and to a handpicked few in a single breath. Today, its 18 years after. And the both of you are here, another came in between to define the prism of light growing in her womb. And it shone brighter and brighter, but she grew weaker and weaker, and no matter how hard i try and save the hands that taught me how to live for the one that still has to live, age has caught up with you. and although the wise one tells me to be brave about death, how can i when your story has yet to be told? I stay away from it all, I’m sheltered by the walls that enclose me, the wings cover me, and so many others that try escape the shrewd nature of the world that lies beyond the walls of barbed wire, beyond the grizzly screens, and further beyond the pictures in the paper, black and white and red all over.

Still in the midst of all this instability, in the heart of this wall of text, there is a beating fighting young poignant heart. There is a point. Sailing across the gulf that separates us, you come to build me a home. I have a few more years left in me, i still have them. All i can say is I can still step into my Father’s House, I can still look up and praise, and I will still look up with no shame until there is nothing to look up to anymore. For that is how I came into this world, with my head thrown back, and my eyes shut, and my hair covering my ears.

Not the pretty way words are supposed to look on a page, no the beauty you bring is when the intensity of your eyes burns life into every syllable of this prose. When finally you swallow your fears and your pride and every single piece of your mortality that remains and you pause. Your stomach churns, because the hardest thing to admit is that you have reached the end of the page. So until then, i’ll put a stopgap in the inflated importance my generation gives to procrastination, and i will shamelessly waste away my days with you, until all we know is taken from us again, and we will be hurt.

And still from the ashes we shall rise.



Golden children of the sky, you golden children of the sky.