The Scythe of a Decision

April 17, 2017 § 2 Comments

I was in a forest. I thought about life that day, and as the sun gushed through the leaves with the air’s current, I felt a breeze all over my jeans, my fingertips, up to my face –– it was cold in the middle of summer.

When the wind wrapped its arms around me, I remembered that there are more important things than success. I walked three more minutes after that realization to find something.

It was a hut – a cave – a little rut in between the woods. I was hungry and ought to let my stomach behave, so I knocked on the door. My parents taught me to be polite.

And an elderly man, who seemed like kind of a bore, looked below to see my small little self stare at his big feet.

“Oh no,” I thought.

This is how it all ends.

And better yet, I die hungry.

So the man with the big feet spoke, as I trembled and shook and my entire body froze. The words raced in my mind and all fell to my tongue. He invited me inside and I thought, “Well, I will die one day anyway.”

He made me food and sat me in a very comfortable chair. I froze once more, because they always make sure you’re comfortable before they eat you. He stirred the soup three times before serving it to my bowl. With every round I could feel my soul swing.

Soon after, I arrived home safely, went back to school and enrolled in university. My mother told me, “Honey, you will find yourself a handsome young man. You will live an honorable life as a housewife.” It sounded good, and what’s better than selflessly cooking and cleaning for a bunch of children, and the even bigger child that ought to support us?

It’s been 30 years since I met the man with the big feet.

The wind that gushes through me no longer does and my fingers are frail at the sight of those who love. The money and the pressure and the work at home –– I do not sleep anymore.

I wish I had stayed with the man with the big feet. At least I would have eaten my last treat.

#247

April 17, 2017 § 2 Comments

 

This was written more than a year ago.

Of all of my years of living,
Which have only been a few,
I have never been as sorrowful,
As I am with you.

Your arm’s grip on my soul
Retains me enclosed behind this door,
Though you keep me whole
I would not beg for more

But perhaps it is destiny
That granted us this presence
Of an entity that keeps me,
Confined within its essence

Though plead, I did not
Nor run, have I so
But creed took its pot
And fed me to the foe

Now I do not confess guilty
Yet truth would be a lie
For I held it gently
And to it, did not defy

But must you hurt me
After years of gratitude?
Or did we reach a curfew
And a split, requested solitude?

To now, I must behold
For I, must return
This sorrow, will make me bold,
Or else, continue to yearn.

Where Am I?

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