I have traded the sea of humanity for stretching deserts and sombre mountains. But I don't seem to hate them. People find ways of seeking out friendships they need in order to survive. I find myself wanting to run the back of my hand across the yearning bellies of the sand dunes and watch the grains tremble down gratefully. If I cannot be comforted and feel reassured about my importance, I have to comfort and prove myself useful. It is the same urge that makes me ache to bloom into wild flowers on the mountains and tell them with smiling eyes that being old doesn't mean new things do not like to hang out with them. I wish I could let them know. Pity. Pity.
First published in Metaphor Magazine, 17 February 2014.