I only lasted for a vast moment; in that time I had picked all the leaves off the tree swept them into a pile then stared blankly at them wondering if there was any point to the exercise of practicing seasons. It wasn’t till I hit an age of consent that I realised the point to things is to stare at them through my memory; since my eyes are deteriorating I tend to live in the past.
In a street full of nonsense where everything I was purposely shielded from as a child smacks me in the face and asks the question “would you like some of this smack?” I tend to regard myself as slightly better off than my human counter parts. I am cocky yet I still live in desperate times, I have no shrapnel in my pocket and wouldn’t mind a hand out for nothing just my words of charm on a passer by. I hate the taste of olives still, free cherries do not turn a grey cloud any type of silver and I smell like mud.
The sound of hunger wakes me; sadly it isn’t mine but my windowsills. It blends in with the cleaning of streets and the sound of trade secrets. The tiles are wet but not with disinfectant and we worry about cleaning our wounds. The paper burns closer to our face and we rejoice in the high of not knowing what is outside for a selection of minutes. A food chain emerges in my living space but I choose not to interact with such tiny beings and refuse to offer my food.
I live in the valley, which should pretty much explain it.
cleaning a hostel in the valley for a roof over my head….