Why we fight.
Maybe you've heard people talking in hushed tones about it. A whisper overheard in a dark theater, a suspicious looking bottle being surreptitiously passed back and forth between a huddled couple on a park bench. There is a drink who's name is not often mentioned in polite company. The public is not ready it seems, to face up to the small but growing segment of society who choose to drink milk and Pepsi.
The life we choose is a difficult one. A life whose landscape has been ravaged by the betrayals of those closest to us. The ones who say that they love us and yet cannot abide the fact that we should choose to mix two very different kinds of beverages. The ones who say that we're the ones who are crazy as they stumble through their antiseptic world like puppets who refuse to acknowledge the strings that twist their bodies to and fro.
No, we are the sane ones, even though knowing so provides little comfort against thesiegeof suspicion and ignorance that surrounds us. This is the life we choose. There are fewsympathizingsouls and even fewer friends along this road but still we soldier on. Hoping against hope that around that next corner we'll find a temporary home.We hope because hoping is the only way we know to live. Or maybe despite the cynicism that surrounds us at every turn, we still believe in that fabled land of milk and Pepsi that the old ones talked about before they past beyond the horizon and into legend. Maybe.
This is the life we choose.Risks are many and the rewards are few. As our families are ripped apart, our children coldheatedlymocking us like strangers. Our only solace is the coldness of our drinks and the darkness of our hearts. If itweren'tfor the occasional kindness of strangers, most of us would have fallen by the wayside long ago.In a street cafe inMombasaa grizzled oldtravelerstumbles in out of the rain. Limping up to the counter he scans his surroundings hawk like. His eyes penetrate your soul as they pass over you. "One and one" he grunts. The server shudders visibly, then steels himself as he reaches under the counter.
Its the sign, in our language "one and one" is three; one Pepsi, one milk and one glass.He quickly mixes his drink and gulps it down, keeping his back to the wall and one hand near his waste. When you choose this life, part of you is always ready to fight. Part of you wants to fight. Throwing a tattered bill on the counter the man gives you one last look and then hes gone. Lost in the mad swirl of the market place. Off in the distance, you hear a call to prayer. Did he look at you because he recognized you for what you are? You'd like to think so.
One day, you say to yourself. We'll be on the menu. Alongside rootbeer floats and all of the other drinks no one thought would ever have a chance. We'll be on the menu, and things will be different then. Until that day comes we'll bear the scorn as we sip our one and ones in silence.
Milk and Pepsi can win! Get in this fight!
The life we choose is a difficult one. A life whose landscape has been ravaged by the betrayals of those closest to us. The ones who say that they love us and yet cannot abide the fact that we should choose to mix two very different kinds of beverages. The ones who say that we're the ones who are crazy as they stumble through their antiseptic world like puppets who refuse to acknowledge the strings that twist their bodies to and fro.
No, we are the sane ones, even though knowing so provides little comfort against thesiegeof suspicion and ignorance that surrounds us. This is the life we choose. There are fewsympathizingsouls and even fewer friends along this road but still we soldier on. Hoping against hope that around that next corner we'll find a temporary home.We hope because hoping is the only way we know to live. Or maybe despite the cynicism that surrounds us at every turn, we still believe in that fabled land of milk and Pepsi that the old ones talked about before they past beyond the horizon and into legend. Maybe.
This is the life we choose.Risks are many and the rewards are few. As our families are ripped apart, our children coldheatedlymocking us like strangers. Our only solace is the coldness of our drinks and the darkness of our hearts. If itweren'tfor the occasional kindness of strangers, most of us would have fallen by the wayside long ago.In a street cafe inMombasaa grizzled oldtravelerstumbles in out of the rain. Limping up to the counter he scans his surroundings hawk like. His eyes penetrate your soul as they pass over you. "One and one" he grunts. The server shudders visibly, then steels himself as he reaches under the counter.
Its the sign, in our language "one and one" is three; one Pepsi, one milk and one glass.He quickly mixes his drink and gulps it down, keeping his back to the wall and one hand near his waste. When you choose this life, part of you is always ready to fight. Part of you wants to fight. Throwing a tattered bill on the counter the man gives you one last look and then hes gone. Lost in the mad swirl of the market place. Off in the distance, you hear a call to prayer. Did he look at you because he recognized you for what you are? You'd like to think so.
One day, you say to yourself. We'll be on the menu. Alongside rootbeer floats and all of the other drinks no one thought would ever have a chance. We'll be on the menu, and things will be different then. Until that day comes we'll bear the scorn as we sip our one and ones in silence.
Milk and Pepsi can win! Get in this fight!