Children of the Equator

We are the children of the equator, and its heat lives in our skins, passed down from kins we’ve never met. They are those who worked sixteen hour days in sugared fields, storing the anger of the sun in their veins. And the days are always hot and sweaty, and respite is the sea breeze that washes our faces and cools the nights. Our dreams are about leaving those fields to maybe a better life up north, leaving behind the sun and its vindictiveness.
But we take the sun drenched past and its lessons unknowingly with us. And on those nights, yes, on those nights when the knives of winter inflict a thousand stabs to our hearts, on those nights we remember the dreams and the lives of our forefathers as if they were our very own. We recall calm starry nights alone in an old boat with only the fish and the moon and his reflexion on the sea as our company. Or we dream of that day when we were conceived as mirror images of the galaxy. For they tell us that our minds are the sun that shines on the world a light bright and hungry for discovery. Our hearts are the moon that imbues everything with love and beauty. And the eyes are the stars that guide wayward and lost souls looking for home.
But far from home, as we travel, we are baffled always by the monotonous green painted onto the trees along the sides of the highways. Lacklustre foods without taste. The serenity and death promised in these things.
For this is the lesson and the worldview that the sun imparts: there’s no life in moderation but in passionate embrace of all things, be it love or loss, success or failure, celebration or mourning. To live is to feel everything deeply.
And so it has been our curse that the sun stokes always in us a longing for home, and inveigles himself into the heart of everything: the spice that burns our lips, the music that sways our hips. And this we now know in the core of our souls – we will never be free.

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