June Penmanship

In June a newborn catches her first glimpse of light. The father marvels at the irony of feeling both powerful and powerless as he cradles her gently across his chest. The mother floats off into a dream.

The dream begins with a boy and his father. They are in a hospital and the man struggles to speak. He is fighting against time, wars never made sense. After that, the boy stops counting the minutes and watches his dad turn to dust.

I stand to observe the cogwheels. The rhythm of life moves steadily in a given direction. All movement implicates the other. Life does not pause – in good times or hard moments.

The concept of time was made up by humans. And I spend a large fraction of my life in sync with it. Yet before birth and at the start of death; how do we add and divide the calculation of time?

We spend endless days anxious about the lack of time. We persistently constrain 6 years of hard work into 6 months and call it productivity. We share our lives with the world but close our hearts to our family. We build bridges across borders but talk bad about our neighbours. We propagate love but kill behind closed doors.

We are walking contradictions. We are a walking civil war.

I watch as a child falls asleep in her mother’s arms. I watch as a child loses his father.


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