My field is a little bit different to yours.
It has tall concrete buildings with shiny tiled floors instead of thatched huts with cool cow-dung slabs. Metal machines transport me to wherever I desire. Four-legged creatures take you to set destinations. My work strains my eyes, stiffens my back and stretches my mind. Your work cuts at your heels, ruffles your hair and dirties the insides of your fingernails. Where I have the endless sound of angry car horns, you have the sound of the wind brushing through the wheat crop. The air here is choked with heavy seasonings of smog and yours filled with the sweet smell of earth after the rains. Here electricity runs through tangled wires. Where you are, it runs through the veins of the people. I do not even know who lives next door to me. Where you are, everyone knows and understands each other without even saying a word. Dangerous comparisons maybe. But my mind refused to let them go.
For too long I wanted to be in the fields that you were in. Yearning for an experience which I thought would make me better understand the world that I so wished to be a part of. So infatuated by romanticised views that I could not see what was always before me. A field of my own. Waiting to be explored. Determined not to be judged. Albeit more concrete than grass, more steel than wood, more noise than tranquillity and more unnecessary sophistication than classic simplicity. A field nevertheless. And it is high time that I get out there to explore what it has to offer.