Delicate little roots clawing feebly through packed sand. Tearing away blindly with the little dexterity they have. Hoping simply for somewhere supple to call home, they meander through the world in the hopes that they’ve finally found amendable Earth.
Little fingers that reach out in the night, grasping for stars that lived and died long before wishes were cast upon them. Everyday we advance at random in the hope that we’ll find the gold rush we’re mapping out with paltry mile markers. Faithful creatures who can do little more than hope for the best. We gamble it all on the chances that tomorrow is the day we strike oil.
We’ll measure our earnings in no tangible way. Instead we forfeit its value for one assigned by another. Like a languid ballet I watch where your feet move in an attempt to place mine. It’s a chintzy waltz that gets us nowhere but it’s one we love to dance. At the end of all things, I still find myself ending a day with a longing heart that reaches out for that which resides in your depths, where it can never reach for what it can never wholly know.
Perhaps this is my calling card. Maybe the simple act of living is my love letter.