Who Are You?
Are you a friend or a foe?
Being a friend is a miracle afternoon drizzle rain on a long awaited promised land sipping with drought.
Being a foe is turning your back from a continuously shimmering boiled water, evaporating into negative blank space, then only to stick one’s tongue out, burnt by the lost water.
Being a friend is quenching one’s thirst, lending hope and healing to one’s dry throat, moistening vocal chords, accepting voices as they are — imperfect ragged sharp-edged beautiful soap bubbles..
Being a foe is silencing stories untold and millions of emotions hidden inside a drop of tear. A ticking bath bomb ready to explode into waves of tsunami, foreseeable catastrophes contained within the slightest fissure.
Being a friend is a liquid rainbow of gold on a bleak black and white stretch of a canvas. A stroke of the brush crafts a ripple of life and gives power to previously unseen displayed objects in a failing melting pot.
Being a foe is a spill of oil in the sea of endless children waterslides, leaking its way into the land killing all trees and living things, oozing a landslide into the dark valley, floating permanently on the surface of a once innocent water.
Being a friend is appreciating the blood in one’s pulsing vein until it no longer beats, because forced transfusion is the wrong DNA and that is fake foul play. Acknowledging sweat of fear and grief of a tear.
Being a foe is a waterfall of false accusations, eroding all the good rocks and replacing them with new privileged boulders, carried away by the never-ending downstream of self-conscious unconsciousness.
Being a friend is a delicate feather touching a pool of dark ink without doubts, rubbing onto paper with confidence, printing a mark to be preserved for centuries. A vulnerable, yet beautifully molded porcelain bowl, which is ready to take on time and present itself to the world full of harsh and uncertainties.
Being a foe is an ancient serpent meandering through villages killing all purity and innocence of its already-struggling inhabitants. Reducing bricks back to mortar, memories back to what-once-was nostalgia, and ashes of the dead into an urn. Leaving no tombstones and calling them aliens. Forgotten. Abandoned.
Who are you?
© Joshua Theodorus Kurnia 2021
