A side of the border in drought that even the sun and the sky is brown, of only one color it's just as colorless, devoid of nature, beauty, art, humanity, sucking the lives out of people's souls. A country on the other primarily contrived by memories of wars, perpetuating terror, hate, and grievance in its people, poisoning their hearts. Centuries of war birthed a lineage of prejudiced fearing loathing dictators who invented their own rights to automatically assume the bad nature of people based on their nameless, faceless warlord ancestors. Once a culprit, now a victim; once a victim, now a culprit. It doesn't matter now more than ever who started wars first, they always end up meaningless. No winners, only losers — but even then is a hierarchy chained upon them. A ladder of losers, of casualties. This is a world of austerity structured by environmental destruction and humanitarian crises, and by totalitarianism.
No love is there in a post-apocalyptic world — it's tired, it's dead. That's why remembering is survival, and dreaming. What purity is there in time or in seasons, or in memory? History is not purely wars, there was the other side too, there was life. One cannot be hushed enough to sing it and many cannot help but to listen, to empathize. Singing is communal, and this is what ties a bond that breathes and sways and hopes in love. Amedea, the heroine who always found beauty in the drab world, in the faces of her ill-fated friends, held onto and kept close to her bosom the love that was given to her — from her father, from Beenabe, from Cho-choli, from Karitase, Shining Lumi, Verompe, and many more that she had met in her journey. She continued to defy the drought and the plague that was hate, division, and inequality by offering songs of love. Indeed, love is reciprocal. Not necessarily just within the bounds of the same people, not an echo-chamber, no, but from one to another and beyond — to the vast world, yes, there goes love.
But love won't forever satiate, this is only where peace begins, (must it cease?), and where the locust girl sang the last verse. It is a novel of prologue, of blooming proses, a genesis of change.
blakekathryn
gracieabrams
turnnoffyourmind
2087
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
