The Future Is Unwritten
Another cafe. This one smells vaguely of garbage, has falling-apart furniture with stuffing poking through the holes. Two women, sitting together near the door to the alley, each talking on cellphones and clutching paper cups. A man blowing cigarette smoke through the open front door. I am aware that I am being followed. I accept this. I have my escape plan, for now. I can't leave this city yet. It is too important, this peace and sense of purpose we have together. When I'm alone I notice hunger and hurt, and disturbing headlines. Last night I could not sleep and wandered through the park, practically daring an attack. I rested on a bench, under the violet sky, thinking of the Gandhi quote: "Be the change you want to see in the world." That I cannot be. Perhaps a destructive nature can be good, if it re-establishes balance. If. What if I fail? I thought about the desert community, those children in the school room. Is that what I want? I lack a utopian imagination. My mind fixes on individuals. An individual. I am, essentially, a servant.
The cruelest assessment I ever made about myself is that I cannot change. Yet somehow it happened anyway. How is it then, that I can trust my own strength?