A cacophony of drunkards wage war into the night. The fight in their veins building up for generations—crown after crown, their idols replaced by outsiders who cared not for their tomorrow. They brave themselves a temporary face to escape into the night, but the sighs at home are of disappointment.
“You don’t know how hard it is for me.”
What did we expect when unity is an afterthought?
“I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
We forget the generations that have come before us, each biting the edge until teeth lay bare, hoping that the end is near—but it never is. We were born into hate and envy, while our mothers held back their wombs as to not bring another into a world where you and I cannot be.
Yet I walk and walk in this city of ancients with its pink, forlorn brick against dirt off the shoulders of those who’ve kept it alive. It is this sweat that comes off my forehead in the heat, it is their blood that runs through my veins that allows me the hope to wake up to see another day. This life is a wall we climb because behind us is an unending pit—and Time doesn’t stop for Space to catch up.
And so we keep walking because that is what we do.