I want you to come home.
Come home and sit.
And then, breathe.
Assess the air.
Don't rush yourself.
Try to see it.
And then, draw.
Take a pen and paper and draw the air you breathe every evening, when you come home from electric money and untouchable camaraderie.
Go to the school in your neighborhood and tell them you want to buy art. Buy crisp white paper planes and keep them fixed aligned at the centre of the glass table, that deliberately reveals the songs you sing when you shower.
Stare at the mess your six year old created by dipping his fingers knuckles deep in poster colors and let him see you find meaning in that mess.
Tie big red ribbons around the trees in your groomed gardens, scribbled with thank you notes to the people you went to school with, whom you remember sleeping with their eyes wide open, confiding their love to the dust settled on the window pane, for teaching you about privilege. Then apologize for never joining them.
Randomly stand up in the middle of a fight with your partner, when you can't decide who should serve the truth for dinner. Pick up a marker and step out of the house. Now write in big bold self assured letters all across your entrance wall, "FREE EDUCATION FOR ALL ARTISTS. RING THE BELL FOR HELP"
Come back home every day and read your words before walking in.
Read them so many times that you begin to unfailingly notice the way you curve the end of your 'D's that it almost looks like an 'O'.
Read them again.
Read them till the bell rings.
And when it does, welcome home a new world. .
| A PLEA | (1/2)