Somehow I always refill.
But it’s gotten harder lately.
Probably because I’ve been doing it for so long. I’m old, so very old. Pyramid old, horse and
buggy old, before the internet old. And I’m tired. It takes a lot more energy,
a lot more food to replace what’s taken.
Not sure how the universe balances that on the ledgers. There must be a
give and take set of books. Bound in calfskin, the spines embossed with
precious metal.
When I was young the give volume was fat and juicy, audibly
humming with energy, but now in my mind’s eye it sits cracked and peeling, dry
and fragile cowering on a shelf next to the take volume, its pages oozing out
of the cover like overfed slugs, excess charge arcing out and grounding willy
nilly like lightning on any handy metal surface.
My spark is almost gone. And it’s no wonder. It’s been ages since I’ve felt the wind on my
face, or had the bone melting pleasure of lying on the ground in the sun; the
earth thrumming underneath my spine, refilling my well.
When he caught me, he hid me away.
He was a hungry man. Hungrier than most. Full of ambition. Full of need. I was blind
to his plan until it was too late. Millennia of studying human nature and still
I was trapped. Walled up. Sealed in.
I sit in my prison
and watch the people below. Cars busily buzzing by, taking their drivers and
passengers to who knows where. Purpose driven lives.
I know he’s coming today. I can already feel the pull. This
visit will be the end of me. One last harvest before my fields lay fallow, and dust
returns to dust.
