Where are my people? Where are those riotous in colour and rambling in words? Where are the fragmented, the mended, and the fragmented yet again? The equivocation of old voices, lost in the trappings of memory -- I do not hear them. The young, the new, the footfalls of those wandering in strange hallways, opening doors to rooms even stranger -- where are they? Where are my people?
All I see are fluff, cotton, wisps of gossamer and down. Beautiful as summer blossoms; beautiful as only wraiths can be beautiful. Eggshell fragile and floating in the wind. These are not my people. They speak not my tongue.
Their skin, ephemeral as air, as time -- not like my skin. The skin of our people are thick carapaces of resilience and remembrance. Our skin are the crusts of earth, eroded and made perfect by a force only the seas and the oceans can muster. Our skin are the barks of trees, of rocks, of stalagmites and stalactites -- diamond and mineral of rough and irregular geometries. Our skin is the skin of histories -- blood-drawing, juices-flowing. Where are my people?
This is my call. Hear my voice, and hear it thundering in your chest. You will know if you are mine. Answer, and I will know if I am yours.
