Written by Issa Dioume
The windmill rotates ever slowly but ever surely unfettered by the strongest of gales. Unperturbed by the occasional accusations of the greatest doubters. The windmill does not stop to consider what it is doing for it is all it has ever done and all it knows to do. No matter how gruelling the work may be, it brings with it familiarity and safety not found in the idea of trying something new. And thus, the windmill spins, grinding the sowed toil of the farmers, workers, teachers and transforming it into bread. A bread to feed the puppeteers of the populace. That is its purpose, an undoubtedly simple yet fulfilling one. Knowing you will feed and procure savoury delights to someone. To escape the windmill one must be aware one has fused with the windmill. To be happy in the windmill one must enjoy the absurdity of this toiling affair. Reaping the the sown toil of the many to feed the few. Wind and unwind, turn and twist yet remain planted in the ground, imperial by mere presence yet powerless to move around. A round motion that time and troubles cannot stop. A turning motion that is out of luck.