I am a part of history. I am the filler, the space between the big names. The air between the grains of sand or the time it takes for glue to harden. I carry the impact of a millipede and the burden of a breeze, with a voice no louder than the noise in black space. I am a day with contenting weather, a bead of sweat on a gigantic organism. The sun does not rise or shine or fall for me, the seas do not roll their waves and run their currents for me, and the books do not bend their spines into creases and breaks for me.
I am the hunter with no blade or bow, a man without fists, bearing no power to strike. The blade with no edge. The edge with no vertex. I am motion without energy, kinetics without force, friction without touching.
A wishing well has no magic; it is superstition. Success is subjective and dependent upon the context. Prosperity is in the heart. A family, for one, is a measure of worth; for another, a curse.
I am a part of history. The part that gets left out of the history books.
You are, too.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment