To the frozen painting, with helplessness

Life is so small. It wants me to be so much. Its shows me so many things. So many faces, so many aspirations in people’s eyes. So many things that confine their lives.

We’re only feathers in the wind…
Falling from the skies without wings…

I don’t know if I will ever talk to you, or ever find out your name. I don’t know for how long our paths will only cross everyday, and I will see you as a frozen painting behind the barred gates on the other side of the street.

I don’t know whether you will ever go to school. Though I really wish you would. I wish you would find friends, find things to rejoice about in the world, find reasons to shed your sorrows, and live.

I don’t know if you’ll ever find good clothes to wear. But I do hope you find enough to keep yourself warm, and protect you from lustful eyes…

I see you everyday. I do. I notice you. I see your dishevelled hair, your skinned elbows and your faded clothes. Sometimes, I see you cry. And almost every time I study your face, I imagine you talking to me, I think I can read your heart. I do care. I do pray. Not everyday, for in my world, it is my things I mostly pray for. My life, my people, my wishes, my sorrows, is all I mostly see beneath closed eyes and between joined palms. You seldom come to mind. But sometimes, on rainy nights, when I stand at the balcony, watching people running helter skelter towards the nearest tree or a shelter of any kind, I do close my eyes, and you come before me instantly. Then I do feel sorry. I do feel small. I do pray. But whether I will ever come out of my comfortably perfect world someday, step out of my car, grab your scaly palm and take you home, I don’t know. I’d love to, in an ideal world, and in an ideal me. I’d take you home, feed you, give you a school to go to, and a little world to happily live in. I’d be your eyes, you could see the world through me. I’d give you my thoughts, my faith, my name, and every material comfort that my heart urged me to give you.

But in an ideal world. And as the ideal me. Not in the world I am in now. Nor as the me I am now.

Now, I will only sympathise with my smallness, and pass you by in a speeding car everyday, watching you freeze, get drenched, shiver, sweat, holding the bars of the gate on the other side of the street. And if I’ll ever cry, I’ll cry at myself more than at you, because I am smaller, weaker, more helpless, and behind a hundred more bars than you are…

(Words from my mind to the helpless little girl I see every evening holding onto the iron gates of a restaurant, standing alone. In the same pair of clothes. Alone. And just a few buildings away, is a school, where she probabaly only dreams of going…)


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