August is making me oscillate between soft glints of sunlight and dark pits of consternation. I sit in class and try to jot down words, but I feel myself descend into a labyrinth of little and grotesque forests in my mind. Heavy trees, whose seeds were sown long before I was born. The green is dark and brown. Barefoot, I walk and let the sharp grass cut my toes and then let the wetness soothe the wound. I pluck some leaves to read my sower's prophecy, and all I see is patterns. Pathless and meaningless patterns. I look up and the sky is getting eaten by all the green. The thick veins of trees erupt from the depths of the soil to stem around my feet. I keep dragging my body across the muddy and damp floor. The air is laden with age-old trauma and archaic affinity. I sit up and wipe some mud to discover a brand on the back of my palm. Skin is seared to mark the bloodline. I lay on the ground and let the soil swamp over me. I struggled with my breathing and, unlike a common human instinct to throw my hands and legs up in the air, my fingers traced the iron mark, my fingertips trying to decipher the fate of its body. Is it a besmirched death or a glory depart to meet my sower?
- Oizys.
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