An old and worn out shirt on my shoulders. Bright and white but ripped despite the numerous attempts at patching. High quality, but tested by time. Its too hot when the sun breaks through the clouds, but my bandeau isn’t enough in the shade. I sit and I work and I think about how long it has been.
I see you standing there, face turned to the wind, catching whispers of neighbors, scents of growing plants and putrefying vermin. You are simple and wise and loving and foolish all at the same time. You’re a dog, so you don’t have to figure it out. You were once bred by Mother Nature to live and fight and breed and die like the rest of us, but someone sometime intervened and now your every bone is bred for comfort. You’re a mistake but you’re a perfect one.
Words float from my pen, from my lips, and in the emptiness upstairs. They rattle around and they return without watering the earth, without bringing forth a crop one hundredfold. And I wonder what I’ve accomplished. And I realize this isn’t the wondering I was made for.
I dream of gods falling from the sky, of life being bigger on the inside and I know these dreams make waking more worthwhile. I think we have to have an idea of where we want to go to spur our feet when we’re tired of running. Dreaming is dangerous. I’ve learned that in my travels. But you die just as surely as soon as you face reality.
So put down roots if you must. But be careful what stream feeds your body and what sun beams down on your photosynthesizing hands. Because you take it in and sustenance will change you. You’re a shirt that can’t be patched. A scent on a breeze. A tree beside a muddy river and a dog that can’t survive alone. And the world will understand someday.