I never really lived in a forest. Perhaps I lived in an oasis, from time to time. Most of the time, I wandered in a land with little sign of life to the naked eye.
Oh, but when it does rain, how lush and lively the desert becomes. Green things reach for the sky from shallow pools of luxurious mud. Hibernating fish wriggle to the surface to spawn in pools that will soon evaporate. Every rainfall is a glorious celebration of the best of life.
Some of us who dwell in the desert, fool ourselves that life is the oasis or that life is that brief respite that occurs the few days after a much needed rain. We try to hide from the relentlessness of a blistering cloudless sky, the truth that cannot pass our parched and cracking lips, and the desolation clear to all but our seared and nearly blinded eyes. At night, we shiver beside whatever meager fire we can feed using the meager skeletons of dead things gathered along our pointless way.
But we dream of the rain. We dream of the too infrequent days of joy spent at each oasis, come unbidden out of the shimmering journey that is the life we know best. Though we can little afford the loss of moisture, we often wake with the taste of salt on our lips and the hint of moisture on what served as our pillow.
It is folly to live in dreams. It is folly to hope for a rare and fleeting happiness, as in an oasis. It is folly to beg the heavens for rain. For sometimes, rain in the desert can be a violent thing that carries away life, when too suddenly a great volume unexpectedly appears. With the poisonous plants and reptiles, the merciless sun, and other unforgiving elements, the desert wanderer needs to keep their guard up.
Would if I could be a tortoise. Protected from the extremes of heat and cold. Sufficient unto itself. Albeit alone, in its shell.
No comments:
Post a Comment