World.

Most of my time is alone. Or if not alone, in the company of others I don’t connect with. Either through lack of fulfilling conversation and understanding, or lack of introductions.

When I leave my sanctuary, or my escape, I always fell a deep disconnect with the world around me, as if I stand alone in juxtaposition to the collective of everything outside myself. It feels as if the whole world is a grand being, containing all manners of thought and persons. I feel the constraints of rules and expectations weigh on it and mine’s interaction. I feel sat across this collective, as if at a small table, on the proceedings of a conversation. I feel no anxieties. I sit across a familiar face, but I feel no inclination to initiate any conversation. I sit waiting, unmoved by any tension that my be present (that is if tension can exist unfelt), for the other to speak the first word. And so, often it becomes the case that silence remains. I sit bored, uninvolved at the table.

Spring.

I really do try to change; adapt to the flow of time in a repetitive series of rebirth. I feel the forces of change pull on me, sometimes thinking I’ve given in. In retrospection however, I find myself in the same place. This is in the way I’d imagine it is for a plant at the turn of a season, It goes through many states, spanning eternities if it were like a human life. It experiences the cycles of the Earth and thinks of its great change: its break through the Earth, the journey upward into its blossom, its wilt, and its death as the coldness takes it. At the return of time however, it is revived. Reawakened to its surroundings. It reflects again and sees who it is, planted stable in its same plot. Upon confrontation with familiar air, and the seasons it belongs, it sees itself returned all the same.

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