― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Trying hard to find water in a dry land. A parched, dry, burning throat tortures me. My lips, peel like mud flakes baked by the noon heat. Life was here, now, only the memory of life conveyed in the carved, hard mud of me, a dry lake. Then a soft wind blows, the temperature drops slowly, a coolness invades, and the clouds gather promising a new thing is on its way. Soft drops escape at first, slowly building a faceless mob. Each drop makes a mark, dimpling the ground. The little craters overflow and begin to form a growing conglomeration of streaming water alliances, gathering momentum and finding their way to the thirsty lake, filling the deepest cracks first.
The hurricane was coming.
No more wondering, no more warning.
I could have prevented this wind that blew,
had I stopped myself from loving you
“I realize there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go.” ― Jeffrey McDaniel
Seeing a thought, though it long past
How your touch and kiss, both would last
The wind in the trees, of my looking mind
Washed the slate clean, with the rain of time
Flitting rare bird, that affection of yours
I crawl through, the closing doors
Seeing a thought, though I longed it so
Touching the dreams, I let you go.
I walked in the rain, head bowed against
“We’re a different sort of thief here, Lamora. Deception and misdirection are our tools. We don’t believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more.” ― Scott Lynch, The Lies of Locke Lamora
“Yet the evil still increased, and, like the parasite of barnacles on a ship, if it did not destroy the structure, it obstructed its fair, comfortable progress in the path of life.” – William Banting
They wander around my perimeters, parasites, drawing from me like a tic. Working my way through the jungles of the game, they latch on. Suckers, filling themselves with my blood. I let some hang on, knowing they’re there, keeping an eye on them; I’m in control. The tic’s bold, so consumed with satiating its desire, it doesn’t know or care that it’s life is in my hands. One day I’ll squash the tic, making a blood stain on my leg, smiling with gratification of my power over it. It’s funny to watch little creatures plying their wares, I feel compassionate for their limited life span and the narrowness of their existence. I play with them, and while others are scared, I’m intrigued. In the end, the game will be played out again, so I entertain myself with my current companions, a symbiosis of sort, the tug and pull of life sharpening my senses.
There’s another way to see this game. Being gifted and talented on many levels, I’ll draw success in a variety of forms. This abundance isn’t meant just for me, but for others. I’m a stream of cool water, those who are thirsty can dip their hands in and draw from my abundance to satisfy themselves. I’ll be filled again, not by them, but by the hand of my Big Daddy (God), who is my source and fountain. It’s my purpose to be filled and emptied in service to others, to humble myself and provide for them, no matter how shallow or misdirected their desires are. Hunger is hunger, thirst is thirst. God causes the rain to fall on the just and unjust. Perhaps in satisfying their errant desires they’ll soon grow tired and turn to my source. I’m thankful that if not for twists of fate and circumstance, I’d be the tic. This inspires me to continue to give and provide, not with reluctance, but with satisfaction, knowing that, if not for God, I’d be the sucker.
Our love has suffered a mortal wound