I once remarked to a friend; “I love experiencing sunrises. Dawn. The concept or the idea of greeting a new day just as it is born. Not that I get up that early too often, but the few times that I do, it always refreshes me."
That was over two years ago. Now I sit atop a stone fortress in a crevice that few venture upon or into. The night is over now and it is almost time for the sun to rise. Already the sky has turned pale within the hour and birds chirp in the distance and bus horns and other traffic sounds resonate along the highway (which once was infested with robbers, as one auto-driver narrated to me) just outside the campus. Yes it is dawn. And a new day approaches. A new day with hopes and desires just like the one that stumbled into being yesterday.
Rain. It falls slowly at first. I am without shelter and for a moment I contemplate abandoning my post on the top of this fortress to seek shelter, but then I think that even cowards have given their lives for more and i halt myself
Wind. It cannot be heard or seen. But it is felt. And it is heard in the rustling of the early morning trees as if they were rising from slumber and shaking the dew from their branches the way we press the sand from our eyes when we look at ourselves in the mirror.
Clouds. They are large in this city, so far away from the city I once called home and the city that promised me a home. Garden City is situated atop a plateau, keeping it at a high enough altitude (similar to my parent’s home) while giving it the illusion of a plane.
Light. The sun breaks through the clouds over the horizon now. The wind whispers in a loud voice to announce the arrival. Hawks and smaller birds rise up into the air.
Rain’s platters audibly upon my shirt now. It is time for me to go. I have born witness. I will testify.
Some days begin like all other; some like something else completely.
The Oil Circus
1 year ago