Conversations with Humankind: An Anthology of Questions we often Ask Ourselves

I took a deep breath;

swallowed the air...

I drank-in the cinnamon-scented winds and sipped the colours that they were so delicately, yet effortlessly carrying as the arabian magic carpets do on their firmly shifting jute backs.

I drank-in the now blazing lights;

The pieces of left-over cement that have turned to pebbles to be lazily thrown upon your friend's head when you are far enough in your childish relationship to be able to converse without the interruption of words, on the not-so-rare occasion that you happen to be pleasantly bored.

I looked down at my hands; I'd always found them quite strange, they were large, but not exactly the right size. Not to mention extremely clammy...something -along with an assortment of such things- that I am constantly afraid of discovering and letting be discovered.

Yet somehow I wish for you to know, without a trace of embarrassment, but possibly, with a hint of askance, and the craning of my neck; courtesy of my ears' hope for coming across the faint melody of the warm embrace of acceptance.

My nails, different, strange shapes and sizes with the familiar mark of the crescent moon reassuring me of my morals, but in truth being but a sign of a calcium deficiency. A little something I learned from said friend.

There's a terracotta cup in my room, right next to another one. It reminds me of us; created by the earth, and yet using the earth; but if the earth, the ground that stabilises us, that nurtures our precious food, if this role of nature sacrificed parts of itself for our creation, then we must be important. Mustn't we?

If something so powerful has willingly birthed us, giving away a part of itself, then maybe we really are something special.

But do we deserve to be?

As I continue to speak to myself, and you continue to listen and to read, the world keeps turning, and turning, and turning, while we don't even have to move; we could just stare at the ceiling and feel.

Feel the afternoon light touch your neck, watch the dust that it spotlights. Do you think that it considers the grime to be the stars?

Or is it just me,

That finds solace in these unnecessary thoughts?

Am I the only being, who like a bat, spreads their leathery wings just to feel the gushing breath of the wind like a waterfall, whisper from beneath?

And if not, if the thread of our thoughts is cut cruelly from the same yarn, then why must we be here?

Why must we be here?

It repeats itself;

It is not even held within my mind now; it has escaped; it now reels its paradoxical head over me when I find myself in solitude.

At times it is of a physical sense, and at times mental. It has decided to converse with me more often in recent times,

When I am pleasantly bored.