I want to sit outside.
Even if it is cold. Even if it is raining.
Because I’ll die in there.
Suffocated by that stale blistering air.
I would rather be here outside. Breathing fully with my lungs.
No matter the cloudy skies filled with polluted air.
Here my brain is clear.
I clutch on to the finite freedom I can claim for myself.
Without umuzi. Without a home.
Because where would that be for me? Where would I fit?
How would I stretch myself out.
I would rather feel my hair raise, my skin bump, my teeth chatter.
Than to slip into a silent coma because of the lack of oxygen to my brain inside there.
From nine to five.
Five days out of seven.
Too many weeks in the year to count.
I would rather not.
But what will I eat?
Where will my head rest?
That building has me like quicksand.
Now answer me this, what is life meant to feed : the heart or the stomach?
I sit here suffering as to why it can’t be both.