The car careens. It is early morning and the fog has lifted. This is the fog of winter and not the fog of fuel. There are a few gold coins gleaming on the road but not many. The city shines with morning dew and the sweepers are busy at work. I sigh but I am not coughing. I am full.
There was more anger on the streets – violence begets violence. The price of fuel has gone up. The students rise in protest but I am happy that I will not be hungry for fuel – that manna thrown up from the earth. There is more anger on the news – the radio and the television blare and spew speculation and contempt. Will the city ever be free from fuel – that manna that makes them angry and me full?
We pass the river. It meanders through the city like a watchful snake. The river is dark and dirty like fuel. The city and its people have polluted the water, which is sacred. It is the manna of life that the people have infected with their greed and grime. The orange seller sits by the road and sells plump fruit. He is unaware of the anger for fuel.
Time is ticking like a bomb and the watch repairman repairs the watch. He is giving the city more time. More time to think and judge and learn so that the lessons of yesterday will not be the realities of today. Time is of the essence but does the city respect it? It has contaminated time just like the river and the bomb ticks slowly away.
The leader in a distant land proclaims his vision for the city and me. The prices will rise and the city will be dark and hungry. Ownership – the word is alien in the city but not in the hills and beyond. The hills are green and lush and the people know how to till the land. The land is potent but not in the city. The city has become dry and so have I.
A famed lady in a nearby land is dead. She was the mistress of glamour and progress. There are many women of progress in the city but they are still trampled by the city and me. The women in the hills revolt against the people's war. They revolt for their children's sake. But the war rages on fueled by the city and me.
There are new strands of thought in the city but will they be allowed to speak? Speak now for all to hear before you are trampled by the gold coin. Wisdom is great and wisdom will shine. The gold coin should not be allowed to drive over these words of courage and progress. But I am slowly slipping into hunger for fuel – that manna that begets violence and rejuvenates me.
My driver is nervous for he may not drive the gold coin for all to see. He is the body that is the product of the city. He drives and tramples and pollutes the river as do I. Yet there is hope in me for the city, for him and for me. He seems like a child with a little toy. The gold coin is his toy that was snatched in his childhood. And fuel is the water that he could not drink for it was snatched just like the toy.We reach the garage, nervous just like the city for time is ticking for the city and me.
(Note: The city I live in is very unique. Some of that has rubbed off on me and my friends. I hope someday to have it all together and show you why.)