I Miss

3:49am…not even tired, listening to the sound of the wind blowing against my window and my breath attempting to match its rhythm, reflecting on a feeling of loss, of what I miss…

I miss the innocence of what we use to be, of what love had created for us…
I miss seeing the elders establishing a foundation for the youth…
I miss the struggle we had, trying to learn a language that was so foreign to us…
I miss the long nights we spent contemplating how to escape babylon system and the wrongs of man…
I miss the time we use to run the streets and disappear in the shadows…
I miss being constantly surrounded by our language, can't believe I almost forgot…
I miss seeing the children run to class barefoot, eating mangos, and sipping on a glass of mauby…
I miss the times we use to fall asleep talking, at exactly the same time…
I miss the days when we just didn’t care, we had no limits, without a single worry…
I miss the days when we could just make anyone smile…
I miss when we layed out in the park, watched the stars, and talked about what life meant to us…
I miss being able to talk to you…
I miss being in the middle of China with you my brother, the journey was amazing and I’ll never forget what we survived…
I miss the late nights we had in the bottom of cellars…
I miss having the squad by my side at each step…
I miss being able to run freely, without the vultures watching over my back…
I miss living without a care in the world…
I miss learning about your lives brothers and sisters…
I know I’ll eventually miss what is present, so I have no choice but to enjoy the present…

19 years ago I opened my first door. Not too long ago, I walked through that same door. When I look back, I see that too many of these things have already disappeared. It didn’t really matter that much to me back then…but every time I look back I want to smile and cry at the same time. I’m trying to walk forward, but its difficult not to look back at these memories long expired…

Nowadays, you can find me in the back of black car listening to the rhythm of African drums. My eyes are sensitive to light, but it doesn’t mean I won’t open them. If the door is open, I’m going in. My body and soul are scarred, but my scabs have dried and fallen off. I can’t be afraid to die now, because I don’t have any regrets. Some things will never be like they once were, but I’ll be okay – let me find strength in my melancholy…