Looking at the tress I feel terrified now; there was a time when they colored the canvas of beauty. Are they not a reminder of myself, raising my hands as if holding onto something in the sky? And when I know that I can only raise them or touch other people for self defense, welcoming, gratulating, snubbing — a survival strategy– one at a time, not simultaneously, I lose the sense of my being. Say I’m a puppet (a very worn out metaphor) that runs drawn by the veins. Say I have surrendered to heaven, without the faintest glory in it, because it comes out of my wasted energy. So God above may well say, “Have you spent all that you had and come to me in your famine?”
Tree am I! How fit! Winter rubs me sore. I shed tears, and bark (not skin anymore). I’m a tree born out of misery not a wasted pip.
Things Adil Writes 