savanna

being selfish is not the fatal flaw you once thought it was. it was worse.

the room is too wide for you, too wide for anyone else to fit inside and make a nest with three little baby blue eggs. it’s humid. it could be dusty. the room isn’t held up by twigs from all over the forest, taken with care and the instinctive knowledge of a bird about to lose its freedom. it’s a jungle, it’s a wasteland, it’s rich and pure and ugly, and it’s yours. no one else is allowed in.

in? no.

but it can be seen for miles around, and from time to time the wild beasts lonely with the pain of being thirty try to claw their way through. you know your defences. the ranks are never faulty. the lines are clear and no matter how close you get to the border the shield never completely drops. not again, anyway.

you don’t want to go back to feeling like someone who lost something.

tiny birds like stars gather around the trees at dusk, dark and frightened, their wings painted with the musings of a clever mind and a hardened heart that’s losing letters daily. they keep watch on you even when you don’t want to be seen. it’s kind. it’s unsettling. you never got to learn privacy.

you’d think the nights would be cold, right? they aren’t. they’re warm and lonely and comforting, eyes up and lost in the starless sky, silver and silent. dark blue and golden. it could be the closest to safe you’ve ever known, and no one can join you. and for now you don’t want them to.

winter is long, but the rest of the year is longer. the rest of the world can make you stronger. the snow hasn’t melted yet. but it will, and it will come again.

[Image: artwork of a mountain at sunset. Source: Dani Relbyn. Used with permission.]