Short or Long, the Tale of Our Lives Remains Ours

We are filled with the uncoordinated sum of blessings. And tears. And wishes. But we always dream of that volcano that has left the mountain dormant. Or quiet.

Our fingerprints are formed when the fetus touches the womb. It is the first touch, the one that defines us. Ridges, arches, whorls and loops mean nothing then. How we touch remains in us as the memory of a chaotic world where we bounce in the density and fluidity of our time capsule.

And when we leave feet out first or shoulder or head, we already know what to expect. Just that we do not know when.

The rest is a tale shaped as pre-planned. We just go through it pretending it is a surprise, a discovery or a riddle. But when we smell the last night’s sweat upon our pillow, we know. It was not a surprise, nor a riddle. A discovery, perhaps.

And when we leave again, feet pointed west or shoulders caved in from the burden of time, we have forgotten it all.

Except, when  feet pointed west or shoulders caved in, we still think of that volcano which now has a name we recall. One more time. For the last time.

Because a dormant mountain is just a pile of rocks. It is boring.

September 5, 2020

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2020