My feet prefer air
by Nikita L Maritz
(Mthatha, Eastern Cape, South Africa)
My feet prefer the air over air filling these lungs,
It tends to feel as heavy as the guilt I have over things I haven't done.
My feet prefer the air over touching the ground, My footsteps symbolized goodness and the willingness to go the extra mile for those I loved and those I didn't even know.
But I was "Oscar'd" and barely offered sympathy or prosthetics when I cried a "Reeva" of feeling alone.
You see, I always feel alone.
I feel like feeling has become a place of misery that always feels like home
and I need a home.
My feet prefer the air so I can walk a path of relief. Ever felt like you're drowning while watching everyone else as they take a sigh of relief?
Ever felt like your soul desperately wants to die but it can't, because it's contained in a body that has another fifty years to live?
It's like standing in the middle of a collapsing bridge with numerous chances to run to either side, but both ends seem so happy
and you're not worthy of such a thing,
But you're equally scared of dying- and so you place your decisions all in the hands of your instincts- only for an ambulance to drive into that bridge: finding a note and a slit wrist.
My feet prefer the air because it's a little softer for my soles, see my soul is attached to warmth and words, so I wrote.
I authored my escape by creating a haven of relevant issues for everyone to find a place.
Art, to me, is God.
The page is my birth place and the ink flows like the Nile. Upon it, lays a stream of African cries about their poverty ridden lives, streams of tears emanating from romantic lies and why love is a lie.
Art, to me, is like me standing in front of an ocean of everything/everyone I lost, as I watch more of them wave goodbye.
Even the Sky wants to leave.
And so, my feet need the air because only then can I truly breathe. One kick of the chair and I'm hanging in the joy of finally feeling free