A crooked neck stands on an
arthritic branch, and with every movement it possess, breaks the branches limbs
one by one. What a tragedy I was witnessing, for within the serenity of its
movements, lives silence, its long forsaken friend. Silence traced the livid
noises of serenity and folded them perfectly into the compacted atmosphere. It
is then when you feel the air closing in, feel it press against your skin and
envelope your blood until it shatters in your sleep, and upon your lips are the
cold and the lonely, only in the enlightenment of the crow’s crooked necks and
breaking branches.
When the silence comes, I come. I
walk to the trees that carry their broken branches and I wait. I do not
necessarily wait for something – actually, I do not wait for anything at all.
And I suppose that you may call it thinking or pondering what I do, but that is
not correct either. I think I find myself in nothing or quite possibly that I
find myself nothing. And that is
alright because maybe I’m only dreaming.
These trees with their branches are
inside a forest inside of a town under a giant sky. Yet, the sky within the
trees does not wish to be vast; it is content with the limitations in the thick
of the forest, clouds, and smoke. And whatever the sky does, it does. Who am I
to question the all-powerful sky? Nothing. Or possibly I would become just a
mere thought; but are we not all thoughts of God made up of our compacted
atmosphere? I assume it does not matter, for maybe I’m only dreaming.
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