Thursday, August 15, 2013

Weekly Creative Writing #18

My kinfolk tumble blindly across the universe - or, what we know to be the universe.  That is, this world... a collection of continents in the cradle of an immense sea. 
We are wisps of folded paper, written words, some stamps, a dried flower lovingly placed in our seams.  We are created the moment words are married to us... the moment a pen, a stylus, a pencil presses into us and creates our identity and determines our future.    
Our souls are thoughts, pleas and ponderings.  We are all different - unrepeatable, unique, never to be recreated in the same way.

Each of us experience a different story.  

Our creation is sometimes quick, as our creator speedily scribbles something and suddenly, we’re alive.  Then he folds us in haste and flurry.   We’re suddenly enveloped in paper, sealed and tattooed with numbers and stamps, then sent off.

Sometimes our creation is frightful.  We’re penned into existence among the black, light-depraved thickness of the night, in the trenches of a battle.  Rain stains our infantile existence but his tears rapidly mature us.  Again, we are sealed, but with trembling hands and tearful kisses... receiving whispered, tender messages that, unlike what we contain, will never be delivered. 

Then we are thrown in a sack, or a metal container, or letter box. 

From place to place we tumble and our dwellings are never permanent until we reach the hands of those our stamps and tattooed numbers have destined for us... You see, a human’s life begins in a home and then he or she begins to tumble around in the world.  But, us... our lives are spent tumbling until we find our home... and when we do:

Then some of us are eagerly ripped open - our seals broken and our souls read.  Some of us are handled with care.  Some of us are never opened. 

And then our dwellings become the desks of dear friends; under the pillows of sweethearts; the bedside tables of military families; in the hope chests of little girls, within a father’s wallet; used as a scholar’s bookmark, or sheltered in the folds of a grandfather’s Bible.  

And so we live... restless until we find rest, meandering until we are delivered, and riding on the winds of thoughts and hopes until we find our home in expectant hands. 

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