Fig Trees
I stood, with my lips slightly parted, at the crossroads of my life, finger upon plump pink lips. The fig trees grew ripe and huge and fertile with fruits. I longed to pick each but each time I drew closer to it, the fig winked and disappeared like a Chesire Cat- the mere hint of its smile lingering in the air, teasing whilst I wasted away to a skeleton longing to choose but failing to do so.
Back and forth I went, aiming for everything and achieving nothing- a phrase burst into mind that had no meaning, proclaiming proudly in my mind's eye, 'Verily, with hardship, comes ease.' Having no idea where the idea came from, perhaps from a corner of the mind so rarely engaged I had forgotten its existence.
Picking the fig I loved the most was dangerous- beautiful and sweetly seeping juices of illusion that you would enjoy and then when it was done, leave you feeling like Kafka's hunger artist. Ripe for the picking- and ripe for the killing it would leave me vulnerably strewn on the floor like some Sylvia Plath amateur.
It was as if I was in a boat in a lonely stream that constantly moving upwards and fast while the branches of different trees hung low over the river and I had the vague feeling I was supposed to grab one but numbness at the multitude of decisions and trees to choose from. On and on I kept choosing. the dilemma rocking me back and forth- unable to choose until I had to choose one. Or get none at all.
I think halfway through the stream I reached out to the tree I had almost never intended to take and swung myself onto it. Watching the empty vessel, I saw the horizon that would have never been and felt a sense of satisfaction.
I had not chosen my fig tree rather it chose me.
Back and forth I went, aiming for everything and achieving nothing- a phrase burst into mind that had no meaning, proclaiming proudly in my mind's eye, 'Verily, with hardship, comes ease.' Having no idea where the idea came from, perhaps from a corner of the mind so rarely engaged I had forgotten its existence.
Picking the fig I loved the most was dangerous- beautiful and sweetly seeping juices of illusion that you would enjoy and then when it was done, leave you feeling like Kafka's hunger artist. Ripe for the picking- and ripe for the killing it would leave me vulnerably strewn on the floor like some Sylvia Plath amateur.
It was as if I was in a boat in a lonely stream that constantly moving upwards and fast while the branches of different trees hung low over the river and I had the vague feeling I was supposed to grab one but numbness at the multitude of decisions and trees to choose from. On and on I kept choosing. the dilemma rocking me back and forth- unable to choose until I had to choose one. Or get none at all.
I think halfway through the stream I reached out to the tree I had almost never intended to take and swung myself onto it. Watching the empty vessel, I saw the horizon that would have never been and felt a sense of satisfaction.
I had not chosen my fig tree rather it chose me.
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