I Cried

The absence of equivalency.

The world opens up and invites us in. The sun shining differently. Glowing with a foreign torch from a toolbox incompatible with my British sensibilities. I approach a bridge and stare out into the river. A buzz of language circulates me. It appears friendly and, most importantly, is easy to believe is so. I wonder if I stick out. A white man in another white nation. Do I have yet another privilege? To attract faux familiarity, glances of notice rather than stares of concern.

The water is not my water. Clear blue untouched by waste. A people respectful of their gift. It scares me, to be honest. Seeing the bottom of the river, the emptiness. The fact that I could be spotted from above as I lay down strapped with cinderblocks - a highlighted abyss. I have reached the point where I smile at strangers, citizens that couldn’t be further from my reach stand beside me. I have learned how to say hello, but it is rarely uttered. That would unveil my disguise.

The night is coming now, and the river is thankfully darkening. This is more like it. This is what I know. I am just as much of an outsider as I am at home; it’s just here there is no expectation burying me. I walk with my head high and my shoulders free. Familiarity does not seem to be as absent as I first thought. No, only hidden, which should give rise to opportunity. Just like my suit of indifference hides my desire for touch yet should inspire a nudist revolt.

I am here, and I am here to talk to you. I stand up from the bench that was my home for the day. The river is calm, and I am overwhelmed. The streetlights have just been turned on, offering introductions. I cry not with a longing for the past but for a future oh so intimidating that the light burns my eyes. It is a nice pain. This is real.

Cheers