About dry lands

Where are the wetlands, I am ready to drown

It is a very dry land I felt it so strongly again. So dry that it seemed only tears could dampen it just right. Tears for it is torn already.

The land has people. Do they cry? Yes they do and they do it plenty but the drought persists. Why? Because the people of the land are so selfish even about their tears. You would think they share it and well they do share it with each other but it is to remind each other that they are tearing up and to be seen for them tearing up. Not to be felt and to feel, not to be held and to hold.

The people of the land thinks the world ends inside of their skin. They call all that’s outside of them, so outside of them. Other people, other things, other creatures.

I see people close to me on this land and I used to tell them that they should be kind. But they hear be more kind to themselves at the expense of others.

Dry people in dry land. I want this. I want that. My dream. Look at me. I am important. My prophecy. My world. Dry people. Puppets. Zombies.

When the north star showed up, they all walked to it, not to be guided this time or because a holy son was a born of a virgin - because that is no longer the story to follow. They wanted the twinkle of the north star, they wanted that light on themselves.

Dry people latching on to shiny shit for hope of being relevant. Pretending to be kind while they use each other. Incapable of thinking or knowing anything beyond because it inconveniences them.

Dry people, dry land.

They don’t teach the children to be kind anymore, they teach them the rule of the animal kingdom. They do not know how to even marginally self sacrifice just once, in an entire lifetime for someone who were willing to do it for them. They are so caught up in a need to polish themselves to shine.

They do not know love. They do not know giving. They wait to give feedback to mothers about their newborns. They use terms such as cute or sweet or adorable. Then they talk to friends and call it ugly and laugh later. Both to advance how they appear to each other.

Dry land. Where art is no longer an eruption. It is another plea for attention. The wet artists are dragged on the streets and stripped naked and thrown shit at. The way of the world makes the wet artists seek to be dry. Beware of the young ones. They will never find, they will never learn, they will never try. They will say it is not necessary to. That it is okay to feel like they do not need to. Dare not to tell them wrong, for they will ostracize you, crucify you, shame you.

Dry people with dry mouths. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah.

Dry people in a dry land in dry times. These lot are so consumed by their self importance. Half wits, dim wits, no wits, fake wits, bigoted wits.

I don’t want to die dry. I am done with your dry land.

I am leaving for the wetlands and I am never coming back.