Escapism.

She should have been doing her homework, she'd later realise all she did was homework. This time though she was writing about what she saw. That boy, looking glum, staring at her as if she was just a tree, or a horse or something- a thing... His face, balancing ontop his hands, his frown... He was there. Sophie was there. Riding her horse when all of a sudden the clouds turned grey, the winds swept up and pulled her hat away. She gasped and looked back, she pulled the reins and quickly started following it. The thunder roared and lightning flashes dawned the sky of light. They were galloping, in this wet rain and so was he, no longer frowning but enjoying this dismal weather. I wouldn't laugh at the cold wet rain, it bites back and makes you stay in bed for days with a fever but there he was. Laughing, which sounded odd. They both galloped and rode and hit the woods, the rain poured no longer dripping, branches creeped and the wind whisteld through. The only sound in here, other than the horses, was the wind hitting the forest trees. The sound made them sway and you could here the swaying, such a hollow sound drummed by the rain. No birds but an owl hooting. It was eerie but Sophie enjoyed it. They both galloped again, they both knew where they were going but never spoke- Could he speak? He wasn't laughing now. Then there were others, that girl who she had rode past was still playing with her sister and three older boys were playing with a ball of socks. They were here, she didn't know their names but knew their faces, she had seen them often but never said hello, they were always too far, unhappy and accusing. Yet she thought of them every day and here they were!
This patch of forest was dry, in fact it was sunny and warm. A warmth Sophie had only experienced once before on that beach in Northern France. She only just remembered that beach, with the soft sand which was perfect for castles and the water which seemed to be warmer than her normal baths! What a place! What a forest and so many kids, her age, she was happy at last and parked her horse.

L’enyorança.

Aquell sentiment de pèrdua,
el trobar a faltar;
els moments, situacions,
països i persones diferents.

L’enyor d’aquell record,
el record d’aquell lloc;
recordant-ho amb una olor,
foto, nom, soroll o situació.

L’enyorança...              
Un sentiment que m’ha plenat,
desde sempre.
A cops un es pregunta:
« Què seria jo si allí no hagués
estat?
Què seria de mi sense aquella
gent?
Com seria, qui seria? »
És simple, no seria.

L’enyor d’un moment,
d’una persona, d’una terra,
d’una gent.

Hi han cops on un es pregunta,
somia, imagina i recorda;
un món que no es el seu,
un món on les decisions
haguessin estat diferents,
equivocades?
Mai.

Cadascú és lo que ha vist,
sentit, pensat, recordat...

Jo soc el que he viscut,
fet i decidit.

Soc el que ara aquí estic.

Spain

They're silent their lives,

under threat of being an unknown,

unfit for a society unequal.

They shout and are heard first time ever maybe.

Will their voices grow silent again?

This time with afony or the hushing they have been taught since occupying that scratched desk used as a sign of power and superiority hitherto.

Who has the power when all we have learnt is to criticise the criticisable and play when our insight begins to zoom in... We are young and malleable when taught. 

I felt powerful engraving my name in that desk.

A desk supported by flimsy legs that couldn't fall.

It has.

It has started now to capsize and my initials on that desk are just that,

but now initials -Oh young!- watching that first domino and shouting and I'm hoarse and my energy, like theirs, was drained 'til now.