Part Seven: Many Months Later, and the Return of the Market-Man

...I look out from my window,

and I watch as the people of this town

move about their daily lives as usual.

There is a rhythm to this place,

which can only be appreciated with the right kind of perception;

as the chimpanzee, our close relative,

shows no love for precisely timed elements of sound.

As though he never contemplated, in the womb,

the comfort of his mother's heart.

The perfection of this muscle's mastery,

of the invisible dimension of time.

I feel it in my footsteps, and my vocal chords the same.

And it resonates throughout my body.

I have come to know these streets, these people,

in the same way I knew the ways of my motherland.

For people can be predictable, expected.

The patterns of language,

culture, of societal behavior,

become an easy read,

for those mastered in this specific literacy.

For people everywhere,

no matter what the status politically,

socially, economically,

wear a particular kind of mask to disguise the anxiety.

As though we were imitating ourselves,

like a camouflaged reptile,

hiding its innards of pink and red.

We all mask the truth, for sanity's sake,

for we consider those who have discarded their mask,

upon the brink of despair,

the edge of the cliff, looking down,

the barrel of the gun, pressed upon the temple;

is it so wrong to search for truth?

to be truth?

Unaware of most of the chatter,

the rapping at the front door,

the sound gets louder to break my thoughts.

I open the door to find the market-man,

his face grave, on the verge of tears.

And I always knew, that if i ever saw him again,

it would be without the best of news...