The Space Between Life and Death
My entries seem to be few and far between these days; there are so many words I wish to spill on these never ending blank pages.
I travel the back roads between the school and town, they twist between shack and tree, run by wild dogs, farmers and scavengers. Often the beautiful messes of these sites are hidden under the blanket of darkness, as I tend to work until after supper and the nights begin at 6, like clockwork, all year, I don’t often become intimate with my surroundings. Today was different. As I rode home on this plus 40 degree Sunday afternoon, I got a better look at my well-traveled maze.
Past the rubbish and the broken machinery, the tangles of wires and forgotten houses that flew past, there was a figure who struck a chord with me.
There he was, on a small side road, pushing a wheelchair, back twisted in pain, legs bent, his steps were uneven and forced, he was sweating in the blazing sun. The chair was empty. I could read the agony on his face from a hundred meters, but above the hurt and the clenched fists, his determination shone through
Every preconceived notion imposed on me of the value of life here was shattered. In a world with so many deaths, and so few safety regulations, perhaps these people have a better grasp of the real meaning of existence. Perhaps it has nothing to do with the space between life and death, for that means nothing at all, but rather the value you can attach to every moment you are given.