These people are still in my head, the poor old men and women of Tripoli. Before I went to bed last night, and the night before, I was imagining them going to bed at the same time I was, in their crumbling little rooms. And when I got up this morning, I imagined them too, getting up at the same time I was (or a little/lot earlier)…
I went to work. That’s where I spend the majority of my time. But what did they do all day? How did they spend their time?
I could imagine them going out for strolls in the souks, kids playing in the courtyard, the supposed prostitute limping around, mothers cooking, washing laundry with cheap soap in buckets full of murky water. I don’t know what else to think… other than the fact that I’ve been overly thankful these past two days, thankful for the most basic things in life, things that most people take for granted: a roof over my head, a good house, a warm bed, food and water, nice clothes…
But somewhere underneath all the dust and dirt, I think I’m beginning understand what keeps their heads held up. It’s something that everyone in this world should have (because it doesn’t cost money). And it’s called: the ties that bind…
Their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, neighbors, friends, or lovers… there’s got to be at least one person in this world that you turn to. They had a tight grip on each other. And maybe that kind of love really is all you need…
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