It’s not the same here. The expensive shoes I had picked out
of their translucent paper this morning are now muddied. I didn't agonize over
dirty shoes back home. One could walk bare feet for miles there. The soft earth was damp most of the time,
weeping with pleasure, grateful for your return. It seemed to graze wispy
kisses on your feet. The forest
fascinated me. The trees closed in, whispering in your ear, stories of no great
concern. Calling to mind passions… of no great concern. I had grown up like a
tree. My mind had been like the trunk,
even and robust. But as I grew up I branched out into a million things,
splayed-out wildly in every possible direction. I stopped near one and looked
up. It was perfect. What does the brain
matter anyway, compared with the heart?
What if once you've grown up into a beautiful tree with branches spreading out in every possible direction and when the sun goes up or comes down it gives off shadows that are pretty and good and pure, what if then someone cuts it down and tells you to grow again. Where is your heart now?
ReplyDeleteNow I want a place where nothing touches me like the grass did, I don't want anything to talk to me like the forest did, I want nothing to connect with me at all. Now I want my dirty shoes and my muddied feet, because then, I only have to clean them and they'll be as good as new.
I can't grow up the same way I did before. What do I do now?