• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 12
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I trim the edges of my fingertips hoping the remains of memory fall off. I carve my hands into stiff round peaks and trim off the branches rooted in my arms. I trace the way my roots take a turn and get lost in the inherent void. I carefully groom the harvest that lines the verge of my brim only to set it upright. I turn my eyelids upside down and store the monsoon in shades of blue. It seeps down my slender cheeks, trickles down the curve of my belly, and reaches my bottom in a faint tinge of yellow.

I am bent at odd places where the rivers of dye break-in. My joints are pale, heavy, and fused like limbs of a slim old statue fused with heat and glue. The shrubs shoot up when spring arrives but bear no fruit at the end. In ill-timed autumn, the flowers whither off into oblivion before they bloom at their best. They yield no crop, no scent, and no oil. The essence keeps feeding off its own.

I slice through the flux of time with hands as sharp as scissor blades; no produce manages to slide by. We are plants unkept, with roots unknown and, seeds unseen, grown like weeds, living off the soil of an empty being. Poking our stems with pointy peaks, wanting to wear off the length of our time, tear off the edge of the moment, thwarting right before the onset of blossom. We stand in the way, swaying with the wind, waiting for our roots to grow sturdy legs of their own. The soil keeps sliding off, and we eternally fail to cross the edge of bloom.