He walks alone, eyes cast down. He has a job to do. People look down on him, make fun of him and call him names like pee boy and stinky pot. He does his job in silence. He collects the urine pots and pours them into an even bigger pot. He carries the ever filling pot from place to place and people stare and wonder why a boy who is clean of clothes, could have such a pitiful job. Is he being punished? Can't he find better work?
Later the boy arrives at home and gives the collected urine to his father who then puts it in storage to process and ferment. For this will make the urine turn into ammonia and father launders the robes of the Roman elite and does so with the upmost precision and makes the clothes the whitest of white. In Antiquity, the whiter your clothes the higher your social status. The father is washer of clothes for the Roman Elite! The boy couldn't be more proud. Bragging is shameful in his family. So therefore he never says a word and continues day after day to collect the pots in silence.
I saw him looking at the red bicycle. It was the same his mother had gifted him for his last birthday. His mother... he missed her. Soon after I saw him reaching the bicycle to climb. Reminiscence was all he felt. The red bicycle was the last memory his mother had left him with.
She was herself. She felt loving was not for her. Yet she gave herself away for that something she thought was never meant for her. She nurtured the love for nine beautiful months. She was the most glowing and affectionate mother to her radiant son. Loving hurts the most; but the face of her son shone like the brightest star of the darkest nights in her life. Till she became herself again.
There is a huge amount of feelings that follow me wherever i go, you push them down y'know? you try really hard to keep everything squashed together that it all becomes too tightly packed, like a suitcase before that dream holiday.
I'm carrying around a really heavy suitcase i think, i'm trundling on through the airport and its like those days where everything goes wrong and you just get really impatient. My passport is at the bottom of my bag so i have to take everything out to try and get it and then once i get it out i realise that my headphones are also somewhere in the bottom of my bag, this cycle continues.
You get to security and your shoes have to come off along with your belt and any electronics you have so you comply because you're not insane and you go through and they have to check your bag for some reason, then you panic because you remember that you left a joint in there last week and there might be some residue. It was fine, luckily.
You then realise that even though you followed through with all the procedures that you're still carrying your suitcase. nobody took it off and you never had to check it in, you dont know why you forgot.
Its your suitcase, its with you, you cant sit down on the plane because your suitcase is in your seat, your standing, people are falling over.
You cant do anything because of your suitcase.
Once upon a time, you said something poetic and sad. You leaned close in a diner booth and told me, "one day when you know me better, maybe you'll wish you didn't know me so well." But we've talked everyday since then. I know more about you now that I think most people around you get to. And I find it hard to imagine going from where we stand today, to any point that would make you unloveable. I wonder now why you said it at all, if there's some big secret left to be revealed. It there's some telenovela twist waiting down the line. I also wonder if you said it to see if I'd dare to try.