prose by Joy Gendy
My thoughts wandered as I sat alone. My mind was like a computer; sound playing in the background, updates popping up every second, ten different browsers open, but I cannot find the right one. Is there even a right one? Everyday we live in black and white. I have not had time to even think about the grey area. The grey area for me was my own values. My own originality. We are stuck to this routine. Where is the change? When do we need to change? How do I do it? For that moment, it felt as if I was in the center. The earth was revolving around me, not the sun.
The ground was cluttered with leaves, which for a moment were flying free, weightless and empty until they hit the ground to lie with the rest. With this new knowledge comes new pressure. We lose our freedom. We become leaves lying on the ground. The wind whispered through the trees. We are like a balloon that is tied down to a bench. Without a string, we would drift away across the sky. The chirping birds, fluttering their way past trees. The hidden sun, waiting to burst past the dreary, dark clouds the next day. All I can hear is the murmurs of the people walking past me. They are like a gust of wind, here one second, then gone the next. Time became a cheetah, going after its prey. Before I knew it, the bright eye of the night awakened.
Looking around, I began to understand the stress for individualism and self-reliance. We are constantly bombarded with what other people tell us to do. If we do not listen, then we are looked down upon. What do we do?