I sit, surrounded by people not six inches away, underneath the deck of a boat. I stare at the bodies-rows and rows of bodies. Some left us because of disease, others old age. I try to hold my breath but it’s pointless, the awful smell of unwashed and sick bodies never goes away. The groans of those around me grow so loud that I cover my ears and try to muffle the sounds with my own singing. Last night I sang until my body passed out from exhaustion and I could only hope that I would make it until today. I’ve become so accustomed to tears constantly wetting my face that it would feel odd not to cry. The cycle makes this seem normal. Maybe that is why I continue to cry- stopping would break the cycle and I would have no daily ritual to follow.
