We spend our lives labelling
each other, black, white, gay, straight, woman, man, but when it comes down to
it, as your spirit leaves your body does any of that matter? At our base, we
are one and the same. What does it matter who you love or what colour your skin
is when you can both be trapped inside yourself, unable to escape.
It makes me want to get a can of
red paint and write on the wall of the Colosseum, a message to all the haters
reminding them what’s important. I dread to think how many spirits live on
after death, still affected by the hate they experienced in life; just like
Yates. This is a sad place, and the horror of its history lives on, and it’s
been packaged and sold for people to stare at.
Who ever said time is a healer
really hadn’t been hurt that much. Tell that to the Gladiators, tell that to
Holocaust victims.
I turn away, knowing my Penny
won’t have stayed here.
The urge to help someone is
greater than before. I know I did nothing wrong in my life, nothing
unspeakable, but being connected to these people, screaming for eternity, makes
me feel a guilt that I can’t escape, because I lived a relatively happy life.
So as I turn away, I walk with
the desire to help.
I know Penny will want to do the
same. I try to ignore the nagging doubt clawing its way forward in my mind. The
doubt that tells me that I’ll never be able to find her.
I sit down on the kerb, looking
back at the building. What can I do? There must be a way. Why didn’t we plan
for this? If we ever die, meet at the top
of the Empire State Building on Valentines Day. In true romantic style. But
we have no such plan. There are a thousand places Penny could be.
What even do I do with myself? I
am free from the restraints of life. I don’t have to go to college or get a
job, go to university or do anything that could be considered stressful.
But if I can’t do that, and I
can’t do anything else, what do I have left?
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