Stick Man

He suffers. He suffers the truth. It is like a lie, this truth, a lie that lingers in his heart like a disease. It defies his attempts at dislodging it. It knows his every move. It reads him like a book, but for the language he does not understand; the words that have no meaning, but the emotion, the expression tells the truth. And for his suffering, he suffers still and will always. He listens to the wind and whispers back to gods that turn a deaf ear. He’s a man who has lost touch with definition, a man who thinks himself an artist (of life), this man who cannot draw. His existence is that of a stick man. Through life he wonders down a straight road on pavement just dried. He dreams of detours. Yet he is afraid of the lie...that tomorrow is today, that all missed yesterdays can be made up tomorrow, that fortune leads to redemption. This lie is the truth that he suffers, this lie he tells himself to quell the heart of him that weeps to be alive. The truth is, he can stop suffering. He can spread his arms made of sticks and reach for the sun. He can live if he only has the will to submit to what has been and accept that anything can be. He can father a forest or he can rot and feed the weeds. His choice is his own.

So is yours?