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.
2 comments:
Have you already started reading my mind?
The same lines run through us.
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