"Not everything that roams this earth is living."
I was in another memory. The sun shone bright and spilled through the curtains. I sat in a steady rocking chair on my mother's lap. Or at least, I believe she was my mother.
"What do you mean?" I asked, dutifully.
"Not everything here is alive, not everything breathes the air we breathe. Not everything walks this earth like we do. The living are the ones who enjoy the morning sun and taste the evening air. The living are the ones who steal the soil and give life to it again. The living are the ones who sow the seed and harvest the fruit. They are the ones who take advantage of the world as it is."
A shiver climbed up my spine. Her words seemed more haunting than whole, like there was something missing in her statement. It was almost like she was warning me of something. Something supernatural, something I couldn't yet comprehend.
She sensed my alarm and sighed thoughtfully.
"It's nothing serious. Don't worry about it, ok? I just remembered--"
Just then the memory collapsed, and my eyes shot open. The spiral lay ahead of me, where I left it. Nothing had changed.
YOU ARE READING
The Spiral
PoetryA deep dive into thoughts about the universe, life, emotions and more, down an endless poetic(and sometimes not poetic) spiral. We follow various characters.
