I left on the bus this morning. No I actually walked to the grocery store to buy some food in the early morning. An unfamiliar feeling was haunting me. It was positive.
I listened to music. Music that most would not care to listen too that early in the morning but it was one of those special mornings. The mornings when I wake up to the adventure of my own solitude. Walking to town on an overcast day, no shoes, no heat, just pursing a partial destiny and not even knowing what to focus my attention on. So I gazed.
The streets were baron as all shops were closed. So I waited.
After the shops I was sitting on the bench waiting for the late bus. It was an enjoyable moment with cigarette in hand, Nietzsche in hand, ipod in ear, but appreciation was dissolved by distraction.
A dark man, some would call spooky, simply touched my umbrella in my backpack as it precariously lay on the bench and side walk. I looked at the man, smiled, and replied to his action with a soft "hi". He was somewhat startled as I disrupted his world.
"Your not from here are you a foreigner?" he asked, due to the lack of my Australian accent. I replied, "I am Australian" and his reaction was expressed oddly. He rebutted, "Right, Well I am the real Australian. 1st generation bratha!" "I am aware of that" I said while smiling back to him. We introduced ourselves before he told me to stand up to give him a hug. It was the best hug I have ever experienced. Time was irrelevant. It was pure. He said, "Bratha I wish you and your family all the best." Shortly after we disembraced his friend brought him a pack of Victoria Bitter to drink away his sorrow. He is a lover. Am I a creator?
I look inside the pages of my book to see whatever it is that I am meant to see. One people have conqured another people and the pain is accute in some and not in others. Simpathy from society is merely a social reaction from their oppression.
Nietzsche writes
On The Way Of The Creator,
"Alas, there is so much lusting for the heights! There are so many convulsions of the ambitious. Show me that you are not one of the lustful and ambitious.
Alas, there are so many great thoughts which do no more than a bellows: they puff up and make emptier.
You call yourself free? Your dormant thought I want to hear, and not that you have escaped from a yoke. Are you one of those who had the
right to
escape from a yoke? There are some who threw away their last value when then threw away their servitude. Free
from what? As if that mattered the Zarathustra! But your eyes should tell me brightly: free for what?"
That text resonated through my experience with the real Australian.
I cought the bus home an rethought about colonial oppression, the lover and the creator.
