A butterfly was on its’ way to the heavens when a human hand slapped it and on some cracked pavement it crashed. Someone walked over it, the sole that crashed its soul. People were marching. Undoubtedly, Election Year.
The tension in the government translates itself in the unbearable intensity of the heat. Celebrities get pushed aside as the spotlight stretches itself to accomodate all key players of the parliament. Everyone’s ears are tuned to hear the latest gossip about the possible candidates. Comedians, commentators and commoners such as myself, forced to substitute afternoons of uselessness only to replace them with more uselessness, only this time in portions of speeches accompanied by the national anthem.
It’s Election Year.
Promising posters otherwise pretentious to people who dare pose a question. Aspiring journalists scampering and scurrying arround for scandals. Reports and results; riots and fights allegedly out of the blue arising.
Opposition parties opposing the essence of competition, formulating speeches on some other party’s bad behaviour, forgetting to highlight why they would be the expected kind of saviour. Voters selling their votes, selling themselves short to the first who offers them a bottle of water. After all, it’s hot!
And it’s Election Year.
Free merchandising being thrown to the people. Clothes with the candidate’s smiling faces, covering ragged hearts of people whose space to have a say has been ripped away.
Exciting time. For me, at least. Me, I watch the commotion, comtemplate the noise and the baby-kissing elder-hugging politicians, the people-loving understanding missions that these people preach and watch… as it all unfolds, after I finally, for the first time, get to cast my vote!
Election Year… is here!