The dance of the hot coals.
Can you hear that?
That is the sound of our conscience dying, our compassion frying, as we keep on lying to self. Self. Responsibility. What is, what is not, our concern? I wonder, about that, don’t you? Our neighbours, the friends we haven’t met yet, the children, pesky little beggars…who cares for any of them? Provides for them, believes in them, protects them and loves them. Should it be you…ought it to be me? Who? Them over there? Who is supposed to fulfil the task? I lament. It’s like were all doing a dance on hot coals, moving, always moving from one foot to the other, from one foot to the other, from one foot to the other…blisters. Nasty little buggers, make it hard to talk, to get up and walk to each other, over to each other. We wonder how this could happen, how that could have been…avoided. Maybe if we had just listened, admitted to what we could hear, what we could see…coming? Maybe things could have been so very different…
Extract taken from the collection ‘Works in Progress’
Written by Tracey Odessa Kane 5th October 2017 ©.
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