Written as a part of the writers’ circle, meeting 4;
inspired by the prompt:
“now the horizon is clear, fire has swept it all away, one small bird, comes home.” from the book Wild Mercy
i think in maps.
like scalable representations
of the many dimensions
the world makes no sense to me.
correction (active voice for my english teacher):
ways in which i am unable to make sense of the world:
spatial, logical, abstract, concrete, relational,
of the world as that
of being, of time and of space.
maybe it’s karma
for that time i convinced a physicist friend that i didn’t believe in time
and that him telling me i had to was mansplaining.
(this was of course a time we could joke about science without anyone wondering if we could be serious)
was i gaslighting him,
drunk on my power of randomness,
for the times that i couldn’t find space for myself in this world.
for the time when they took a fire
lit of their own senselessness
and burned down
this thriving garden i used to call my heart,
planting seeds of doubt instead,
in that fire-tilted farm;
fertile for suspicion, disbelief, confusion,
having been fertilised with derision for
a world i wanted to imagine into being,
dismissed because it didn’t yet exist.
grew, these seeds of doubt did,
in a mocking shade of moss green
flowers of curiosity flourished on them
and blossomed into fruits of wonder
a hybrid forest of cautious hope
evolving from the historical ruins of love that
underneath the eroding surface of my
love affairs with these pedestal people
has composted quietly into nourishing soil
filling in the rooting curve that exists
beyond the horizon
like the soundtrack to this circus,
3 may, 2021