Barrenness
In an unnamed forest in an unnamed land, an unnamed man sits crying by a riverbank. The bare trees stand watch, bark rough and branches sharp. The grasses by the bank are dry and brown, and the water level is low. The river still flows, but its movement is sluggish, painfully slow. The man does not see this as he stares blindly into the distance, his tears trickling in a steady stream down his face, to fall through the air, to join the listless march of the river below.
This is not an unnamed forest in an unnamed land, nor is this man truly an unnamed man. It is just that their names have all been forgotten and as such is lost for the telling. And so the forest wilts, the river crawls, and the man cries. All of this done in mournful silence and forced companionship.
The river was the first. At least, the man believes it was the first. When he found himself here, there was nothing but the river. The man could not remember his name or anything else. He could not understand why looking at the river would cause a fist to clench over his heart and squeeze the tears from his eyes. But it felt right to cry, and so he did. The river did not judge, and neither did the forest when it appeared.
In this suspended time out of time, the man knows no hunger or thirst, and his body needs no rest. He seems to have cried for an eternity but the tears never run dry. The pain in his heart does not lead him to ever wonder why. As he cries, the bare trees stand guard as the river accepts his tears.
In the distance, far, far away, at the end of the river, a small pool grows, fed by tears. By its very edge, a seed is just beginning to sprout.
This is not an unnamed forest in an unnamed land, nor is this man truly an unnamed man. It is just that their names have all been forgotten and as such is lost for the telling. And so the forest wilts, the river crawls, and the man cries. All of this done in mournful silence and forced companionship.
The river was the first. At least, the man believes it was the first. When he found himself here, there was nothing but the river. The man could not remember his name or anything else. He could not understand why looking at the river would cause a fist to clench over his heart and squeeze the tears from his eyes. But it felt right to cry, and so he did. The river did not judge, and neither did the forest when it appeared.
In this suspended time out of time, the man knows no hunger or thirst, and his body needs no rest. He seems to have cried for an eternity but the tears never run dry. The pain in his heart does not lead him to ever wonder why. As he cries, the bare trees stand guard as the river accepts his tears.
In the distance, far, far away, at the end of the river, a small pool grows, fed by tears. By its very edge, a seed is just beginning to sprout.