America is normal.
America is my normal, anyway.
But it’s really a small place in reality, with just a puddle of people and an enormous foot-print, a loud booming voice, and eyes that are always shaded by the screen of something. HD. LCD. Cinema. Mirror.
Everywhere you go there’s a filter. Church. Street. Airport. Store.
But all I can think about, burning holes through that screen is this face.
This man greeted me in the middle of a dusty commotion of protesting in the streets of Nogombo Sri Lanka, and he did so with a grin so big and proud, gesturing that he wanted me to take his picture.
A big smile, dusty feet, clouded eyes and less to his name than I’ve ever had to mine.
Fireworks sparkle off the black of the sky and I see the word freedom shimmer through the cyber world.
Here, we are free.
What now can I do with my freedom, for the smiling man in Sri Lanka with a protest buzzing around him.
For anyone.
My hands are not tied by anything.
What now can I do?
This question is going to drive me mad one day.
you can write. Mom