The more conscience you’re loaded with, the more painful the journey becomes.
Hyenas have a special radar for conscience, because it gives them the means to exploit the ones who possess it.
He was a good boy, and he had been visiting the hospital with his sick brother.
In his eyes, I saw my own childhood, and in their arms, I saw my brother’s heart.
Ghani had been visiting the hospital with his sick brother.
His eyes, were fluid, and every time he blinked, his lashes guarded the tears that only he and I knew about.
He wore a green check shirt, his shoulder had a crumpled cloth that probably belonged to some woman back home. His pants were torn at the seams.
His eyebrows were thick and his nose tapered sharply.
His lips were full, and the face held within it, that thing – that innocence, the simplicity and the softness that I have always wanted to protect.
He looked like the girl that I had left behind in that town – yes she was a younger version of me, with torn clothes and bloody knees.
These are the kind of people I don’t want to look at, but put my back to them, and take bullets when they’re shot at them.
Ghani’s brother, suffered from sickness, and they sat in the suffocating precipice of the building’s only X-RAY room, where radiations were thick.
Every time, I’d cross them, my heart would pound with the same heaviness that I’d long since left outside of that critical care unit, where I lost my innocence.
You’re not supposed to be so fragile, you know?
But sometimes I feel like I was walking with half of my body; my insides completely exposed, my wounds raw, and the acid of the atmosphere burning them.
I did not want to look at his face, but it was so endearing, because it constantly reminded me of the girl who should have never existed – the caretaker, the fighter, the softest girl with the hardest past.
I don’t know what men of my unit feel, and if at all they’ve allowed for any feelings in their foggy lives.
I don’t judge them, but sometimes, they’re so similar in their viciousness and so cold in their motives.
My only way is through them.
My only hope is boys like Ghani who give me hope, unknowingly, and plant in me strength that has been draining since forever.
Every time I think about doing the honors of killing myself – because I don’t see Jesus anymore – I stop, because I am not the person I hate, I am not the woman who would grant herself that destiny.
If I go, that little girl who is out there on that highway, cold and stranded – she will be forever orphan, a ghost in her own prison – and I intend to get her back and hold her in my arms, and rock her to sleep.
Sometimes, you’ve to be your own mother, and nurse yourself out of peril.
Because Ghani and his brother, they’re still innocent, they’ve still not been consumed by streets – but sooner than later, this wretched world will take advantage of them, and hurt them, wanting to make demons of them.
My pain is, I do not get to be with these boys and raise a wall, because a boy must weather his own storms and become his own person.
What will they do to these young and beautiful boys – would they experience the same hopelessness as me?
If I could give them my blood, I’d drain myself dry.
It’s just that I see my brother, my best friend, everywhere I go – and my eyes well, but they turn dry instantly when I see him, and I see him in these people, the people of the earth, innocent, soft, untarnished by the world – trying their best to pull each other out of disease and poverty, and get some hope in this life.
It’s so funny that I was smiling while I stood under the sun – these sick children I’ve always wanted to protect since my childhood, were actually the ones who have always protected me, while the ones who were supposed to protect me, became other people.
Ghani exists, and he saves me from the nightmares of the bottom.