9/20/18
9:26 am

The people I meet in dreams don't remember who I am. I knew you back then, I say. You know me. But I think about the ways I am different from then, how fear made me shift in ways I can't describe.

There isn't enough time to tell the stories of my becoming,
as I am still becoming.

Winter is my season. No stranger is the cold, dry air to my nostrils. The wind whips my face, lashes for every breath taken for granted.

Ice awakens ancestral knowledge,
not of human origin but geologic time.

When did we become vessels for truth? For the words on my lips crawl from a well of pain, fragments bubble to the surface.

Pieces to a puzzle only I can solve.

I wonder, does the core of our planet feel the way we do? Does she writhe in pain the way we do? Is she lonely, like me? Does she feel alive when the sun beats across her face, and does she dance across space to feel alive, like I do?

Earth wept when we plotted her demise, victim to the narrative of a civilized society. Human progress is nothing but power and glory.

How have I been so complicit in your suffering, I ask.
The Earth remains silent.