As a writer, I know the significance of words
and just how meaningless they are.
“I would never hurt you, you mean so much to me,
you’re my everything.”
I know the pain of having another
steal your painstakingly crafted work.
Planting ideas, cultivating, allowing access to sunlight
– “I love that joke! Our joke!” –
the betrayal of whispered promises that
fall apart, shedding leaves
at the slightest breeze, a breath, really.
The flimsy spider webs near my willow tree were stronger.
Whispered promises transition to a whining gale,
“But I don’t understand, I love you, it wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
Dusting them away, spring cleaning.
Yesterday, I had to throw out one of my plants
it was dried up, empty of potential
I tried to tenderly nurture the green buds
researching all the ways I could prolong its life
feeling growing sadness as it slowly withered
and crumbled anyway, and tried to take me with it
– a mite tried to sneak its way to my vibrant peace lily –
I swiped it away and dumped it, pot and all.
Today, I painted on my slanted eyes and smiled at myself in the mirror,
it didn’t quite reach full expression, so
I wondered when the sadness would leave me.
Two days ago, after a thunderstorm
– so loud I couldn’t remember how to think
let alone think of plants –
after seeing my eyes, a gentle woman hugged me,
“Life is suffering.”
I wanted to argue with her, but there was a finality to her words.
Life is suffering? Is that all? Life is Suffering.
I hesitantly replied, “Interspersed with moments of zen…”
and she smiled, “If we’re lucky.”
Finally, words with some meaning.
Image is mine.