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Blogs by Leslie Musoko
Benchmark... 10/20/2010 4:11:02 PM
I am stranded as they watch me, know I’m here, know it is my turn but can’t tell what I’ll do. It is an old classroom, maybe new to me but others have scathed these walls, their palms leaving indentations the size of potholes on these benches. I am stranded as they watch me, know I’m here, know it is my turn but can’t tell what I’ll do. It is an old classroom, maybe new to me but others have scathed these walls, their palms leaving indentations the size of potholes on these benches. My heart is racing, feeling my purpose like that of a greyhound chasing the debts of an anxious gambler. Why would anyone care if I leave a mark or not, what difference does it make?
Haven’t we all walked into a bug on that forgotten highway and seen the remnants of past voyagers? Names, messages and emblems of their sanity and insanity carved on the walls symbolizing that they had been there, existence. Was I meant to be a part of this or am I the traveler that only seeks his destination. Who sees what I see when I stare at the miniature object that strides between two points without a defining purpose in a vast universe? Real symbols come in trees, laden with roots that go back to ones desire to sow the seed. I scream charity, I scream love, I scream other things and sometimes fear, you name them and I’m howling like a banshee but where is truth? Isn’t the seed for the fruit, the branch for the stem and the stem for the leaves in that order or reverse? So why ridicule graffiti, dark shadows in forgotten undergrounds, subways when that of the heart sings volumes of discontent. We pilfer the truth from ourselves without the knowledge that every action is noted, every reaction a tick in the box. However none of these matter unless the heart is part of the equation, the spirit the solution. Without these our trees are tainted, covered in mildew and we are the ergot at breakfast.
Many years later groomed to new heights and back in that classroom, reminiscing and now ancient in thought. The orotund is deafening, it is not being invited to the party that hinders progress it is a dress sense that’s handicapped and lacking. Change this and perigee, touching soil and feeling real. If I hold true to the word I would not labor or run in vain. Now I know that it is my turn to leave a benchmark because like those gone before me I won’t know what purpose it serves until I do.
