On Friday afternoon, I took two taxi rides.
On my first, I was on my way somewhere. I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I didn’t know exactly how I would reach there. I really just hoped that the driver taking me would.
But he did have an idea. An idea of where that place was. An idea of the roads that might lead there. An idea of the path to our destination.
On my second, I was on my way home. I knew exactly where I was going. I knew exactly how I would reach there. I really just hoped that the driver taking me would.
But amongst the congestion and confusion we call traffic on a Friday afternoon, we got stuck in the middle of each highway or pathway we eventually got on.
Both times, I eventually got to exactly where I wanted to go. Albeit from contrasting starting points.
On the first, we found our way based on an idea. Based on our perception of what the end would like.
On the second, we had to divert from pre-conceived notions. We had to find alternative pathways to reach where we wanted to go.
I think that sometimes that’s the oxymoron we find ourselves in-between.
In-between working towards something we don’t really visualize and finding alternative ways of achieving what we’ve already visualized, especially in the midst of unexpected constraints.
But I also think that those are the moments that define us. The moments where we have to believe in our own beliefs. The moments where we have to overcome unprecedented barriers. The moments where the journey makes the destination truly worthwhile.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Peter Kasprzyk
like pupils in rooms
they called eyelashes
Prepared to burn
they were extinguished.
Living those matches
burned and converged
in its remains
© Hudson Biko
via Daily Prompt: Criticize
I took a pair of shoes to the cobbler today. Only one was actually being fixed. The other was more or less a point of reference. A point of understanding how I wanted the tattered one to look.
Soon after the cobbler began fixing mine, a young boy came in with his own shoe. With exactly the same problem I had. At this point I began looking around the cobbler’s stall, looking to find other similarities. And I soon realized that it was surrounded by a myriad of other shoes, each differing in their purpose and construction but most times only one of a pair.
Even though the pairs took the same path, one was often the one that was spoiled, deconstructed.
But in its own way, this represents our own path.
It represents how facets of our lives can be congruently held together whilst being torn apart.
It represents the parallelism of experiences across same paths.
It represents how irrespective of its construction, everything has a capacity to fall apart.
But it also represents the value of experience, the importance of taking the journey to begin with. Of walking all possible paths and taking everything that comes with it.
It also represents the capacity to construct from the deconstructed. To build from what has been torn apart. To stitch and sew experiences to create something whole.
Something that makes the path truly worthwhile.
© Hudson Biko
I walked into halls filled with jail cells.
They told me that I was the first one here. That I could choose which one I wanted. Then abruptly pushed me before I could ask how many of us they expected.
Stumbling down halls dumbfounded by the concoction of silence and anxiety.
Momentarily thinking. “What am I doing here?” Turning behind.
Met by eyes penetrating the flickering darkness. Voices utter, “Continue.”
Each cell surrounded by blood.
Each bed covered by stained and saturated sheets.
Sheets that are still somehow spread in expectation.
Tightly tucked across the metal framed edges. The few patches of white glistening in their exclusivity.
Come here. Sleep.
There is no choice here.
Running. Back to wherever I came from. Wherever that is.
A hand grips my shoulder. “We told you to continue.”
Dragged down dark halls. Walls crumbling.
Muttering. “I don’t want to be here.”
In a succession of blurs,
Staring at the abyss.
Screams that pierce the deafening silence.