And Idle thumbs

Soft trees, soft like love. Beautiful and born to die. Leaves cascading in simple palette hues. Browns and yellows, like a bruise.  Blood pumps, heart races. The thumping concussion of anxiety and fear ripples through memory engrams, ripples through consciousness, each leaf an earthquake. The pain of a bruise reminds us of the past, of injury and in that introspection we learn.

We say to ourselves and to others, “here is what I did wrong and this, yes this is how I can avoid it in future”. Leaves cascade and I remember love, deep rooted love, it grows from a tiny seed, an acorn of “like”. It grows.

And idle thumbs? They draw, they paint, they write. They do whatever they can to hide the death they feel. The bruise grows.

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