Burning

Love. Laughter. Life.

Lights. Vibrant explosions.

Lavishness. Tables stacked with exquisite food.

Legacy retold to the old and young alike.

Lightheartedness.

Four days… then solitude.

Nothing at all.

Nonexistence.

Nonsense.

Four days of celebration…

A reminder of identity.

But, after those four days,

I melt back into the autonomy of the nondescript whole.

For four days, I am proud of myself.

I know who I am.

But after all that, who are we to the rest of the world?

We are not associated with the love and legacy.

We are exiled.

We are banished.

We are persecuted for a history, not our own.

We are prisoners of an unjust sentence.

There are no colors to represent us.

There are no flags.

There are no delicacies of the tongue to remind the masses.

There are no preparations in the commercial machine.

We are ghosts amongst ourselves.

We celebrate silently.

And after that parade, we sink further into oblivion.

We reach for the mask of anonymity that has served us.

It really does not matter who knows.

Who is aware.

Who loves.

I know myself.

I don’t need a mirror.

I don’t need a color.

I don’t need a symbol.

My faith burns in my heart.

Alone.

Hurt.

Defeated.

Sometimes.

But, I cannot parade to deaf ears.

After the parade, I am still myself.

Hidden.

Quiet.

But never ashamed.

After the parade, I am still dignified.

I am still valiant.

I may not be seen.

I may not be heard.

Faith needs neither.

After the parade, my soul still burns.