HIATUS

When we think 'forest' we imagine an ensemble of lives, each striving for the sun up there, never really reckoning the deads littering rocks and sand, all those former lives now being consumed by their children, starting them up into the ladder of life; As a specie, we forget that basic rule, the young always grow out from the old, preferably in a genetical fashion;

Strangely, we have lost the art of growing up into the wisdom of wrinkles, as if those were a branding of obsolescence, decrepitude, failure; If one is only aware, or made 'real' through a societal structure, it precludes any awareness of this inner being, the one made of a million pebbles, mistakes, picked up along each day's path, slowly building up an existential persona which exudes quietness, observation, silence, happiness found within that now day's pebbles;

They make each day a garden to be taken care of, for each day remains invisible to all those others, for a person is but a day's built, never to go further;

Seeds it is.