A car rests. After slivering up and down, rest is welcome. I am thick with soot and the fog of fuel. I am resting but painful in the awareness that I am hungry. Fuel – that manna for the stomach.
The radio blares and we all listen. A corrupt man awaits judgment. I am pleased for justice will shine. Bright young hopefuls are coming forth to tell their story. It is a story of hope. Yet I am wary – my fate is still untold. They tell their story of books and of learning. I am learning as they tell it. I learn but will I remember?
Warm sounds and songs of peace are sung. The road is meandering towards that white dove that we all want in our land. My land is cold and hungry just like my stomach. The radio blares songs of peace yet it is elusive. The war has captured many and shorn more. I read in a magazine that more lucre will do more damage.
Trade is important but the land is insecure just as I am. Guns and bullets are traded and so are men and women. A woman is going to her home of learning – progress is bursting. The woman speaks of dreams and hopes for herself and her land. I speak of dreams for myself and for my stomach. The woman will learn and teach some more who will do the same. Let them learn and teach again.
The stomach gnarls and I suck it in. The garage is dark but warm. It smells of fuel – that manna from the earth. Distilled into its present form, it spurts out of the container. It is that oil that propels the gold coin and me. The gold coin is driven and my driver is smiling from inside. He has driven the gold coin for all to see. He is driving for all to know. The gold coin drives him and becomes his show.
There is a strike today. The tired road gets rest, as does the gold coin. They are walking like they used to. The city looks friendly now not crowded and dark like when the gold coin is driven. People seem happier, they do not need fuel – that manna for the driven. The picture is warm and welcome. They get exercise and their stomachs are not heavy. But I am not full.
The cold is warm but not sooty. Fresh dew has fallen and they touch it with their bare hands and feet. The tires of the gold coin do not trample it. That sacred liquid is transparent. Fuel is not – that tasteless liquid for the driver and me. The radio again – the strike is for the war and by the war. Yet it is juxtaposed with that peaceful melody. There is hope for the land but is there hope for me?
The dog plays with my body. It takes a bite out of me but I am hungry for fuel just as the dog is for play. Stray dogs walk around. There are only a few gold coins to be found. The dogs can roam freely for they will not be trampled by the driver or me. They bark out their hunger just as I do mine but mine is a tale of hunger for fuel and theirs will never be.
(Note: There is a lot of concern on matters raised in the journal entry here. This was written quite sometime back. I hope it will be taken with a pinch of salt.)