Overly thoughtful is what it felt like when you shared your testimony. I could tell by the tone of your voice, that you cared. Your eyebrows could not tire curving multiple times I could tell it was not by choice. Your black hair which was being invaded by the unforgiving white soldiers already to signify the milestone, was still shinning and standing out combed straight to perfection just as your due admirable works and catalogue written in the hearts of Mankind. Icon therefore,is an understatement.

It feels wierd at the moment as we gift each other off-guard glares simultaneously. It is almost like from the underworld I out of nowhere receive telepathy abilities and I can siphon out your words off your mouth before they have the pleasure of being uttered. I see you bluff and flattered. I pretty much get goosebumps in every syllable I am naive and more than ready to receive wisdom from wisdom’s best. Pleasure is mine sir, please put me to the test.

The white collar around your neck thoroughly pressed is like a medal for it obviously depicts excellence if not perfection. The news journalist on their blog covered that you have good taste in Italian debonair three piece. I guess the latter has more character.

Your past and reality are very much not similar but all together we cannot dispute the the fact that you’ve lived both of them. As far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t wish to live your past for all it bears is too much grief and wells of tears but you still don’t fear, to tell your story.

The irony of life weighs more pounds of iron based lies and less need for honesty honestly, who would have thought, straight from an environment defiled by ‘not having’ to having, starving, to burp fill. As the clock hand rotates multiple times institutionalized in its cocoon I recognize scars underneath your ‘model status’ skin as if to almost disguise. I alone at this premise knows your pain for we share a home town. Or should I say, shared.

Apparently you realised that you deserved better and you saved your children off this abyss. Off these bloody streets. I am left to wonder if I too will follow your footmarks or I was destined to be the face for the Non-Governmental Organization television commercial. I mean I would not think of a better contestant for when you look at my face it has ‘sad’ written all over it. The masses will sympathise more.

As you tell more I am better than before. As you wind up I am obliged to adore, as you open your locomotive door in your garage I bet you own galore. My pencil at my home desk can’t wait to tell more stories. My eraser can’t wait to erase more worries. And maybe one day, one will haste, to go and write my story.


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