we want things to be black and white and the world is made of color. we don’t even get shades of grey to choose from, we get red and purple, orange and blue, green and yellow. we get the full spectrum, an elusive rainbow made of light and still, all those colors are never enough.
my garden is thirsty. i’m thirsty. we’re all thirsty for something, always. we’re all here beneath the same blue sky, the same night stars, the same tired sun, and the world spins round the way it always has. we think we know better. we refuse to see the forest for the trees because the trees refuse to acknowledge our presence.
i step outside at night and listen. i look up at the stars and there are no answers, only questions. i know the names of some of the constellations, but others i’ve forgotten. i don’t bother relearning them because i’m tired of naming things. some of them don’t even exist anymore, even though i can see them. a name seems so irrelevant.
gravity holds me in place and keeps me silent and makes me laugh with the cage of its promise.
i’m not a tree because i’ve never grown roots. every tree out there has made that decision. but i’m the one carrying water. and i have no idea what that means.
we thought shoes were a good invention. and guns. and cars to carry us to other places. we think we are smarter than ourselves.
this is a prayer and i don’t pray. this is a mantra that needs no chant. this is the morning a flower will open.
we are not seeds but we know how to hold them.
we plant hope and beg for rain.
the sky is grey, the sky is blue, the sky is orange.
all of these things are true.
or false.
depending on the day.
.
.
.
