And then the sky fell.
Not with a thud, rip or thunder, but slowly, with deafening silence, black clouds caving in.
God watching from above like a desert traveller watching an ant lion’s trap.
Slowly, giving us time to understand that the sky is falling on our heads.
We. All but me. Who refused to believe and understand.
My feet in the ground, my head pushing up hard against the sky.
My head high, holding it up with all my strength, my hands pressed on my ears to block out the noise.
Sometimes, at night, when not all of them are screaming together, I am trying to recognise the words among the collective shrieking.
Almost as if catching a name of a station through a blur of lights from a speeding train.
I can almost hear the words themselves and then they’re gone, brushed passed the fine hair on the back of my neck, lost in the sea of languages, shrieking.
And then one night, when half the world took a breath, I heard the other half.
Loud and clear.
Let go.
