i am the banisters of my old school

it became certain to me recently that my existence is a railing to lean on, to hold on to when you're just about to slip. And when you have your bursts of energy, your occasional inclination to be joyous, you are encouraged to decorate the bannisters or slide down till the very end. And when you're in a rush, you forget to hold on to me and I watch as you hurry on up to the next floor. 

the wooden handrail in my old school was furnished, grand and darkly stained. it had been polished from all the gripping and sliding. and when you moved it at just the right angle, it would shake a little and you could see it come off from the cement steps. These wooden railings were not going to last and they would have to be replaced soon.

i felt like the banisters of my old school the other night. i was making a call to a friend or to whom i presumed was a friend. every now and then they come, they lean and then, they go. And what can i say or do but to withstand the weight - the burden of my purpose. i must ground myself further when it is heavy, i must stabilise my roots when it is furious and when there is the occasional poking and tossing, i must cower lest they see that i am slowly uprooting myself from the stairs.