Most things we write come out of a moment of enthusiasm

Fossils by the Pool cont’d

The boy grew and changed, just as you did. You could see your life so clearly mapped out, and he was at the centre of it. You used to have aspirations of leaving your home town and doing something different. At night you would lie awake and count off the potential careers, listing the pros and cons of each of them in a calculated manner. You could be a psychologist, listen to people’s problems, help them make it better. Care about people, see them go from sad to happy, dark to light. But you know that you would simply care too much, and all those worries, trials and issues would just pass onto you. You would be doubled over by them, carry them with you constantly and stand like a little old person whose life has slowly stooped your fragile frame. They would get better and you would get worse. So psychologist was out. You could be an architect, design great structures with an artistic flair, make people stare in awe at your huge, giant pieces of art. But there were too many arguments to be had with the engineers, too many people working on the team for it to be really your project, and you hated that. You hated being part of a collective, though you helped your family when you should.

That’s probably why you loved the boy so much, he was simply your’s. No one else really cared for him at all, no one could be bothered by him. They gave him food when they had to and let him play about in their living rooms with whatever other animal or child was around at the time. Your village was a small one, near the mountains and full of trees. Looking out from the front door of your family’s house you would never tell that within 200 metres there were three neighbours. The trees were an odd collection, some eucalyptus tress, other pine trees and a few others being choked to death by fig trees. You could watch them over the years, see the exposed roots creeping down and slowly smothering the trunk of whichever unfortunate tree was now destined to suffocate and die from lack of sunlight. When the roots finally tapped through the soil and began sucking its own nutrients from the ground, it simply got stronger, broader, and more comfortable. The tree that had never had a choice  died, decomposed and gave everything it ever had to those damn figs.

But anyway. Enough for now. to be continued, any ideas and inspirations welcome.

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This entry was posted on March 12, 2012 by in Arts, Writing and tagged .
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