It’s raining, but quiet outside, so I am indoors, next to the stove where it’s warm. I am smoking a cigarette watch at the droplets slide on the window with a night light shining in from the street. My arms are heavy, my steps slow, my breath shallow, and the cigarette is almost done.
There’s commotion on the southern border, some people suspect the war is coming. We haven’t had war in twenty years, and there’s warmongering in the news. People are afraid. These younger generations, now turned twenty, don’t remember what was it like back then. They see their peers from other countries as friends, as they supposed to, but the question arises, how much the older generations poisoned their minds with political propaganda and promises nobody fulfilled? It doesn’t matter where you live, if you are young, these lively teens are your friends, hungry for parties, longing for travel, curious about other cultures. Seeing them with their genuine smiles, spirits held high, positivity pouring out in their every move, it’s humbling, it’s inspiring, it’s hopeful. But the 90′ are coming back, and I am a child of the 90′, the one who saw the collapse, the bombs, the dead, the weak, and the brave. A thought no one is willing to say out loud lingers in the population, one that is tied to what was lost, but everyone keeps quiet, bites their lips and tongues, scared to the death not to shatter hope that flickers deep in the heart. I see it in the weary eyes of the strangers that pass me by, try to make a warm, friendly smile, but the faces are motionless. It’s chilling, if you recognize the stare. Cold, lifeless stare. Each has a story of loss, a river of tears, sorrow and shivering mouths of a mother. Behind those eyes, there’s that fear, a mother of all fears. A nation without hope is doomed, elderly know it because they have lived through it, and know how painful it was, and no medicine can take that pain away.
Nobody lays their trust in the leaders anymore. They’ve failed to show us the strength, love for justice, and honor as their traits. Trust is an expensive thing to lose or gamble for political power. Cogs in a machine are rusty, but faithful. I see the difficulty those in power try to move them, and nothing these two-faced folks say will make me help them. Leaves are falling, rain is turning them wet and slippery, the season is changing. Air became crisp, clear, but sharp, fresh with the inhale. Fog is holding until the noon, and this weather is what I like to see and be in the mist, breath, pretend I am alone, think of who I am. Twigs crack under my heavy boots helped with even heavier steps. Autumn is a season of dying. How fitting to have talks about war and destruction. And I hold my hope that perhaps this is all a planned tremors in the society because elections are coming up. It might pass in two weeks, and foreign powers step in to save the day, get their medals and decorations, promotions and a pay check, and everything comes back to normal. I am watching at the droplets on the window, touched by a blue neon light. Exhale the smoke, extinguish the cigarette butt, and then proceed to pull out another cigarette from the pack.