(no subject)
Sandwiched between two point blocks is a place. It used to be a playground filled with sand but now it is synthetic rubber flooring that does not require much maintenance. The younger ones are clambering all over the platforms of the castle-looking structure. They are roughly four to six years old, clad in outfits of various designs and colors. They wear what their parents buy them, no care if the contrasting colors fail to match. They hang from the rings attached to a horizontal pole, their tiny arms already strong enough to support their body weights.
It is monkey business as usual, everyone following the oldest of the troop. They all take turns climbing to the peak, sliding down and repeating the feat over and over. They conquer the playground under the watchful eye of a parent or grandparent. The grown-ups are also there to socialise, exchanging parenting advice or discussing the latest drama on the tele.
The older ones have outgrown the colorful slides and ventured out to pastures new. Beside the playground is a larger patch of grass followed by a stepped sitting area. They are congregated there as if holding a war gaming exercise. They are a few years older than the playground playfuls and have more autonomy over their wardrobes at home. The boys have toy rifles and pistols while the two girls are elevated on pastel-colored roller blades.
The miniature army is discussing the terms of their impending battle. “Should we have a free-for-all?” They show little to no interest in the girls except one boy who shouts, “Why you talk to my sister like that!” when a larger, more imposing child soldier dismisses her request to join in the battle. Poor balance, roller blades and the steps do not make for the safest combination. She falls and does a split, much to the humour of the boys.
They sound the battle call and immediately set out for the battlefield, cocking their orange and grey rifles that contain no ammunition. They chase each other, twist and turn and holler like the children they are, unaware of the true atrocities of war that they take so trivially. The girls are left behind, comforting each other and watching the boys from afar.
Before long, it is dinner time and one by one, like a scene from noon outside any primary school, parents call out to their offspring and they depart. They spare no detail as they recount the stories of their earlier conquests. The adults nod in agreement but shake their heads at the dirty feet and sweaty faces. Their thoughts are centred on the meal that awaits and the monday blues to come tomorrow.
It will just be another day. Just six more days to their next meeting on the battlefield. Maybe they will have new guns or a sword, maybe not. But they will be waiting subconsciously in anticipation of the humanly construct of time to pass them by and they will be prepared.
All this, in the space between the blocks.
It is monkey business as usual, everyone following the oldest of the troop. They all take turns climbing to the peak, sliding down and repeating the feat over and over. They conquer the playground under the watchful eye of a parent or grandparent. The grown-ups are also there to socialise, exchanging parenting advice or discussing the latest drama on the tele.
The older ones have outgrown the colorful slides and ventured out to pastures new. Beside the playground is a larger patch of grass followed by a stepped sitting area. They are congregated there as if holding a war gaming exercise. They are a few years older than the playground playfuls and have more autonomy over their wardrobes at home. The boys have toy rifles and pistols while the two girls are elevated on pastel-colored roller blades.
The miniature army is discussing the terms of their impending battle. “Should we have a free-for-all?” They show little to no interest in the girls except one boy who shouts, “Why you talk to my sister like that!” when a larger, more imposing child soldier dismisses her request to join in the battle. Poor balance, roller blades and the steps do not make for the safest combination. She falls and does a split, much to the humour of the boys.
They sound the battle call and immediately set out for the battlefield, cocking their orange and grey rifles that contain no ammunition. They chase each other, twist and turn and holler like the children they are, unaware of the true atrocities of war that they take so trivially. The girls are left behind, comforting each other and watching the boys from afar.
Before long, it is dinner time and one by one, like a scene from noon outside any primary school, parents call out to their offspring and they depart. They spare no detail as they recount the stories of their earlier conquests. The adults nod in agreement but shake their heads at the dirty feet and sweaty faces. Their thoughts are centred on the meal that awaits and the monday blues to come tomorrow.
It will just be another day. Just six more days to their next meeting on the battlefield. Maybe they will have new guns or a sword, maybe not. But they will be waiting subconsciously in anticipation of the humanly construct of time to pass them by and they will be prepared.
All this, in the space between the blocks.