Monday, November 16, 2020

I dimly recall when I have been at war with myself, torn between desires. A prisoner, roped to a stake in the gale. A sapling oak.

The wind blew and blew, the leaves flew off, here I stand in peace. My shape is my shape, how could I be another?

I live in a world of gentle breezes, now that my branches are bare.

(Letter #2,137)