on grief and literary activism

The soles of my shoes kissed the cement. That momentary friction felt more of a prayer than a physical concept. I was heading for a funeral constantly replaying at the back of my mind. There was not a dead body paraded on the linings of my skull, but I lamented for a beating flesh. I agonized at the thought of moving calloused feet against a rough pavement. I imagined a skin, tired of placing the organs intact. This anguish barely felt foreign. I thought of a tongue, bitter against leftovers. My stomach convulsed as if my very self was placed on their shoes, though they did not have any. My breath fell shortly as my spine met the softness of my bed. My consciousness fell into retrogade. The hands of the clock moved backwards, halting at that instance when my eyes wandered around the streets, seeing bodies uncomfortably asleep against the cold paseo, with only a thin fabric between the pavement and their skin. To sleep against a cushion is a privilege. My throat dried up as I remembered why protests have to be done. We become the voice of those who don't have any. I closed my eyes, forcing stories towards the tip of my fingers. Every day is a death of rights and of dreams. I grieved over and with these people. But I know it should not stop at that. This is why I write. This is why this has to be written.