I’m sorry I had internet issues and so this is starting two days later than scheduled but I’ll start from our first guest write in all the same. He’s @GammaRay and he blogs at davidofgold.wordpress.com. A friend iintroduced me to his blog and I was hooked plus he’s super nice – I mean he didn’t know me and he was nice to me but now we’re sort of friends (I think). Enough rambling … Here’s our first official Love One-Four post by Jed! 😀
Waking up in the morning could be so daunting sometimes. I would rather continue snuggling and rolling beneath the blanket instead of getting up to face the barrage of phone calls, visits, noisy neighbours, loud-mouthed colleagues, traffic horns, angry dogs, horrible bosses and swearing goons; but I get out of bed somehow. I throw a few things into my bag and finally decide to begin my day. A few minutes later, i am facing the flight of stairs that leads to the ground floor and my neighbour is outside as usual with the air-piercing voice ranting after her husband against his infidelity. This time, instead of the usual noise, I hear a silent plea to be noticed, to be held and to be loved; to be cherished and valued. In her mind is their picture –perfect love-life which eight years of marriage has eroded; their first date all rosy and fun shoved beneath dark years of “building a home”. Her voice isn’t boisterous and demanding, it is passionate and pleading. The streets feel so busy, as usual. Down the road, an angry pedestrian is trying to put a careless driver in his place by raining abuses at him for not being careful on a busy street. His voice shows supremacy but his face expresses pain and disgust. Pained at his lot in life and disgust at what he has become; his voice isn’t loud and challenging, his voice is feeble and longing. Around the corner, a man lies on the curb – sleeping. It seems all peaceful around him because over time, he has learnt to retreat into his Elysium where all seems at rest. Traders hawking by him, officers blaring sirens, transporters wailing furiously doesn’t make any difference to him as long as he is home – by the curb. A couple of streets down the road a girl, not more than eight, beneath a load too much for her to bear. What we see is a tray of fruits and vegetables, but what she has is the burden of responsibilities and family needs laden on her eight-year-old head. She calls passionately for passers-by for their patronage with a smile, but deep inside her is etched a scar; a scar of a home without a father, a sick mother, an abusive relative and an uncertain future. A few steps more, in the comfort of my office, I reminisce on the events of the morning. How deeply hurt the world has become, how desperate we are despite all our masks of supremacy, pride, arrogance and power. I wonder at how we have survived all along with this deep cut that needs binding. I conclude that each of those voices desires to be heard; desires a moment of attention. I conclude that what may be love to me does not have to be love to the young married woman who needs affection, the lost pedestrian who needs an extra change, the homeless dude who desires a home and the servant girl who wants a dad. Call it attention, a loving kiss, a moment in the park, a spare shirt on, a few more coins, an extra ration of food, or a father’s voice, I call it love.
Tomorrow we have 21st Century Love by Swansparkle. Have a great week!