REALITY: Life

The boulders roll in great thundering noise that warns and so you step aside, wipe your brow, and plant a garden where they fell.  But sand can sting, abrade and like a dozen small mosquito bites you’ll scratch until you find that you are bleeding from your pores.  Who thought to take the time to dab a bit of calamine or something on the tiny cuts and bruises.  Not me, I stick a bandaid on, but not to salve and heal but rather stop the blood from staining what I touch.  But drop by drop you’ve lost yourself in all those dozen places, until you’re soft and dull and malleable like a four-day old balloon.  And with a skin that’s thicker for deflation you feel safe, no fear of popping but just the same you end with all your insides gone just like the air and hollow, useless, you have shrunken up and died.