Today was tough purely because I'm a bit under the weather and I feel utterly exhausted. But, the idea for today's challenge arrived to me out of the blue this afternoon and so I ignored the tiredness and did my best to translate it from my head to the page. So here it is...
The Procession
The theory was that it started somewhere in the Amazon rainforest, but the first time that The Procession was actually seen was in Bolivia, on the Plaza Mariscal José Ballivián in the city of Trinidad. A few hundred people, walking and swaying to a beat that only they could hear. I remember seeing a low resolution video of it on the ‘And Finally’ segment of the news.
By the time it crossed the border to Brazil, it numbered in the tens of thousands. A line of dancing, chanting, people that overwhelmed and then poured through the border crossing, seemingly oblivious to the warning shots that the border guards fired over their heads.
And it kept growing. News crews were sent to report, but they simply dropped their microphones and their cameras and joined The Procession. Colombia had hastily constructed razorwire fencing but it hardly slowed them. They simply danced into the fences and then up and over the bodies of the dead and dying. Relentlessly surging north.
The Procession swept up through Central America and into Mexico; its numbers now more than a million. One of the Cartels tried to stop it, but it was like trying to use tissue paper to hold back the tide. The Procession didn’t even slow. It shed damaged components and assimilated new ones.
The US National Guard were lined up at the border, but before The Procession was even in firing range, the guardsmen began throwing down their weapons and helmets and running to join the throng.
I ran North, but it was a case of buying time rather than saving myself. Because they’re getting nearer. And my feet have become restless. Dancing to a beat only they hear.
I know it’s only a matter of time before I too join The Procession.
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Honestly, I’ve no idea where it started.
Looking back, there was a mass of confusion; I’m not sure if we were being lied to, or by whom, but I remembered feeling an itch, and worse still, it was an itch that I simply couldn’t scratch.
The procession was stretched out in front of me: hundreds, if not, thousands of people, all united in a common purpose.
These were my people. I felt like I belonged.
Sure, some of them I wouldn’t want to bump into on a dark night in an even darker alley, but our sense of purpose is what united us, not our race, class, gender, social standing, or our occasional “extreme” viewpoints.
Collectively, we all felt that we’d been spiraling out of control for years, perhaps decades. The truth was no longer a cornerstone of who we were, it was paper-thin, and we’d hold it up to the light expecting salvation to shine through.
The man in front of me extinguished his cigarette, then turned to face me.
“You with us?” he asked, pointing at his shirt.
I knew what he meant. I could see the callouses on his hands, years of thankless toil for a land that he loved; a land that was being invaded and terrorised; a land that was a hollow shell of its former self; a land that he had once called home, but no longer recognised.
Mutiny was the only way.
I clenched my fist. I managed to blurt out a hasty “Fuck yeah,” and as the words escaped my body I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders.
We were heading into battle, and we were going to win.
In no time, it was finally time.
I stepped into the booth, grabbed a pen, and ticked the box marked “Leave”.
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