This place is strange to me.
It might sound clichéd but every single day my eyes and brain are battered,
Beaten by sights and stories and memories of hate,
with people I don’t know and in places far away
that are mysteriously close to my heart.
Strangers, we’re taught to say.
But that’s strange to me,
Because every mother lost is a mother.
Every man, the brother or son of another
and it doesn’t matter if I don’t know the faces or names of those others, because
They have names.
And the physical space between I and they is meaningless,
And the bonds go so much further than biology:
They are not fenced in by borders and countries
But transcend the man-made, they share a bed with reality
In the imaginations and patience of others who try to feel,
Who attempt to see,
By taking a moment to look into the eyes of the hurt,
And try to see what they see from a place that doesn’t see the other as other,
Doesn’t see the self as just ‘me’.
Because in order to believe that those who I’ll never meet
Are just the same as you who I know see,
We’ve got to leave this mentality of me, we, you, me:
Forget about this narcissistic obsession with ‘I’,
Constructed and crafted by capitalist minds,
And move into that nationless place of all humanity.
That place is where we really meet;
That place is where we truly see.
This place of strangers is strange to me.