You know it’s war out there because something is always killing you. You went out into the trenches again last night. Like almost every night thinking about trouble and looking to mingle with the salty dogs. All your cargoes throw shade and you catch the hands of a giant just to gather ammunition for a few more rounds to blast into the night. Tonight also. Tomorrow night as well. Almost every night. Every night you come to the same place and wait until the sky, the stars, the air, the world or at least someone catches up with your mood. You feel like you want to seek answers from each one you find in your way. You feel like the cornerstone of why. It’s question mark keeps tripping over the corridors of your mind. Cause you never think the last time is the last time. You think there will be more. You think you have all the tomorrows of eternity but you don’t.

So, 2 am conversations aren’t about taking up the world anymore, making miracles in the first daylight, or setting examples by introducing world to others. They are about yourself. With yourself. Question marks do not fulfill themselves with your child like sense of wonder or with what you shout in unison with your dreams to the world in order to rebuild it. They are fulfilled with carrying it. Carry the eyes of stone that observe the trends without them. Carry the words that echo in your head every time you realise they can’t hear you. Carry the need to replace what has hitherto been there but you feel unable to move a muscle. Carry yourself around hearing the crack in your bones, which do not fill, no matter how much tears you feed them. Carry the loss. You could not see the meaning of life at all when they were here, but now that they are gone you can see it everywhere. You see it in everybody’s eyes. You need them to be seen, by you yourself.

We are but a thread within the woven web of life. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. All hearts conjoin together under the same pain, all bodies clasp under the same embrace. Losing someone, looking for them agonising in pain is universal. You are not the only one. You are not alone. But you are you. And you know it never really goes away. You simply find a way to walk with it. Life is slippery. Just when you think you have a handle on it, you don’t. Most of our lives flash before our eyes while our minds can barely grasp the concept of what is happening or its meaning. You dare to lift your head to the vast sky hoping to see them wrapping their angelic wings around your broken body. But, you feel frauded by the notions that console you. However, it only takes a moment to realise this is not a bad dream or a product of your imagination.

It is the clearest example of reconstruction. Your own. The cargo on your back sets your mind in constant search of understanding. You know you will never be the same again. Never again without them. So, if it means tearing yourself apart by the ends of universe inside you, you will, if it leads to discovering the answers you need. After all, life is a constant quest to the light. A constant tumbling down of what hinders it. A constant way down to your darkness to find out how much you crave for the light. Way down deeper than the dip of your cookies in your milk back in your lost innocence. You could never stop chasing butterflies even if that means that the light will kill you. At least, you have touched it. At the bottomline, you have to die a few times before you can truly live. You have to be taken something away from you, to realise how much you needed it.

So, you still build and rebuild you, to match your own anticipation of how life goes on. You find comfort in the storms because there is something about a slow roll of thunder in your chest, where your heart beats, where it pumps blood to move your body. A steady lightning show in your heart that makes you feel worthy of the rain. Longing for its drops to wash it all away.

Patiently almost basking in the light, at the end of the tunnel to dry you up after the storm.
No, it is not an illusion.
It will dry you up, it will guide you home, it will ignite your bone.
It’s not an illusion. The tunnel is.

Author: Pepi Naki

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