Green ring

It’s a harsh life. Grandfather gifted me a mint leaf yesterday and a jade ring today. I float between this green-ness: an incapsulated reminder that summer will come and the cold will go. This winter bites harder than the last, chained by steel frigidness- we’re all trapped behind bars. Grandfather went out into the front door garden yesterday, to smell and pick the mint for me. He did it because he thought I was sick. Sick in the childhood nostalgic sense: stubborn sneezes, oozy eyes and all. We all let him believe that. I was sick in different ways. It was like this whole time I was walking on cracked glass, and only now did it finally shatter. Never thought I was capable of carrying so much weight, dragging them along to create a path soon sucked up by my quicksand. Never thought I could breathe in and consequently out like a revving engine.

I don’t quite like these comparisons, I’m saying as my eyes rest on the gleaming golden ring. My writing never as polished as that elegant embrace of light and precious metal. Who am I to ponder upon elegance? The whole occurrence was anything but polished, like smudged pencil marks after impatient rubbing on paper. You can never rub out a mistake completely, dear, traces will always remain (shavings too). So this time, I’m not trying to rub it all off, instead I’ll turn the traces into something beautiful. As a human, I have an advantage in finding beauty in the pile of rubble. (define rubble).

Yesterday I fell down a well, and when I hit water, I thought that was it. And when I started sinking, realising the fall wasn’t over, I opened my eyes. All unfamiliar. Burning salt-water, numb hands. Fuck. My oxygen tank was out, I had used it all up, litre by litre, on the voices of the past. Sitting on the hour hand, I weighed her and me out, down to the last breath of air. She shone and kept shining, blinding my eyes, driving my thoughts like moths to her.  The figure of her, her curves, the way she opened her arms to the world. How I, instead, kept them crossed. (I think). Trapped like a marble in an arcade game, bouncing between realities I wish to be, forgetting there was only one exit sign, one place to be, ever. And with all that bouncing and clashing in the maze, I left behind a trail of velleities. And with all that happening in that too-much confined space of my mind, I forgot. I forgot my eternal dance with ink and stories and hearts of people. My sensual strides, barefoot in nature, air fresh and undressing me of my skin. I forgot my magic and how much I loved singing inside seashells and looking up at clouds. How much I desired to unfold my petals to everyone, to it all. To show my radiating, pulsating light. My flower will never be like hers, and our buds will bloom in different ways and we’ll be facing the sun at different times. We were meant to grow into something different. We will have different vines chopped off us and we crawl across different continents and settle at different times. Our missions, infinitely different and that’s what I love about it. My reality must be like this, and her’s like that, it is essential. I’m happy to say we’re carrying it out amazingly.

Dear, we’re different flowers with ever changing, never clashing roots.

Let me marvel at all the tulips, daisies, orchids, roses, sunflowers in the field. All composed of one frequency, love.

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