Friday, May 30, 2008

A glass ceiling

(Intro: There are times in my life that I would really not have to do much except write, especially for myself. I begin the day with you, sometimes. I also end the day with thoughts of you. This was written with a lot of you in my mind, I think.)

Day Seven

The car is on the track – swerving amidst the grind and the grunge. The village is swept clean by the conservationist but the city is hot and humid with the sweat of young minds and the dirt from the river. The gold coin needs more fuel – that manna for the engine and me. The road is like a black seething river – polluted by the wheels of the gold coin. The gold coin becomes the flash of lightening that possesses the river and thirst for water is quenched just like I am full of fuel.

There are new wares to be sold in the city and there are postures to be hung – postures are strange and unbecoming but so full of regurgitated angst. Angst is like fuel for it blocks the mind of progress. Fuel – that manna that is thrown up to the sky by the sea that is reluctant to share. Will those that keep the fuel for themselves share the fortunes of the city? Fuel – that manna brings more gold coins to the city. The baby rocking in the cradle cries for the gold coin is careening down the road without a care.

The television screams out news of price hikes. I am smiling now for I will be full of fuel. Fuel – that divine liquid that pollutes the city and keeps me crying for more. The by- product of fuel is sold in markets that bring more lucre. Plastic is turned into wares to be sold and bought but the degradable is lost now in the fog of fuel. Wares from the villages are becoming scarce and the market becomes a trading place for plastic.

The learned try to infuse the air of democracy but the city is tired of talk just like I am. The fog of fuel has contaminated the minds of the city dwellers and democracy is lost in the process. Talk is cheap on the streets but fuel is not. The price is higher than the city can afford yet I am happy being full of fuel.

A man of fame and policy is shot dead in a nearby island – the island has been in turmoil. There will be more turmoil to follow for the man was the island's hope. Hope is burning in a shallow lamp for the city and for me. It is often swept asunder by the people's war and the war for fuel.

The gods are angry at the city for the rains are patchy and warm winds blow away the monsoon. There will be shortages soon but not only for fuel. Shortages will create hunger and more men for the people's war and the war for and of fuel. The man of God brings blessings for the family. He ties them together with a string and tradition is kept in tact.

The fog of fuel is slowly taking with it the age-old traditions that have bound the city. Democracy will thrive but so should tradition - hand in hand with the gold coin? The gold coin that has maimed will be driven for show. But the man of God comes walking on his bare feet. He does not have a gold coin to show but he is armed with tradition more powerful than the wheels that tear. I am happy though for I am full of fuel – that manna that is potent for me but not for the city.

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