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Scattered tribe
by Gordana Mudri
2018-12-21 08:23:38
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wolf01_400_01There are these days, when I wish I had a switch to turn myself off; days when nothing makes sense and every step I take, every move I make, leads nowhere from this stale swamp. I'm turning around in the same place, thinking how I have no purpose, I won't leave a trace behind me and there is nothing I can do, because everything I do gives no results. Profound words sound fake and empty, and chaos in my brain gives no answers to hundreds of questions. There is nothing I can change in this world, and if the purpose of life is life with purpose, then I'm not worth of living.

I feel like I don't belong anywhere. As if I strayed on this planet, naive like a Little Prince who just needs someone to draw him a sheep. And everything around is incomprehensible, strange and terrifying.

I just want to hide, to run away in my own matrix, in my fairy-tale, full of colours and scents; with amazing sunsets. In a world where I don't have to look for purpose because everything is so perfect. I'm just there and no matter what I do, there is always a happy end.

But my matrix is temporary; as my moments of peace are temporary in this world, where only wars are permanent. Nothing will ever change. I can move a grain of sand in the desert, but the desert will be just the same. I am like many of those nameless, who were here before, through time and space, feeling the truth and leaving no traces. And the Earth is still turning...

There are those days when I don't understand anything, I don't believe in anything and I'm just waiting...           

And then, very slowly, through the cracks of my despair, the chaos in my brain begins to catch words. They're tearing through the wasteland, jumping over the distances...

The rage is coming from the cold north. The anger of one of my friends is almost tangible.
The worry is coming from far west. Another friend feels the truth of extinction.
The sorrow is coming from the south, where homes lost their sounds and colours, and the homeless man sings the blues…

And I feel... I'm not alone... They are here. My little tribe, scattered around the globe; each of them in his own swamp, in his own desert. We are wandering, miles away, but yet so close, connected with our thoughts. Maybe we will always stay apart, but we are here as well as all those before us, the same as we are, unarmed warriors who left no visible traces, but are the changes. We are here, to be just who we are - the balance of this chaos. We are here, each of us one Little Prince, and we are drawing sheep to each other, leaving traces in our hearts.

There are these days when nothing makes sense...

And there is my tribe, to bring the purpose back.

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