hello dear friend,
What should I say? For a moment I thought you’d lost the ability to awe me, to pull me in. I thought perhaps it was because I’d lost my innocence and with it my ability to believe the tales of your hills.
I was wrong.
Who made you like this, I foolishly ask; foolishly only because I know the answer already. Does that make the question a waste of a breath? Or does asking for the sake of asking hold some value? Anyway, the answer is what matters and the answer is you. you made yourself over millions upon millions of years, rock shifting slowly, water pushing roughly.
All I can think in response to this truth is I don’t have that much time.
I come to you weary, tired and weak, like so many of your children before. They were often seeking refugee from the harshness of this world. I mirror that past in more ways than one. Drops of my blood come from those who you sheltered as they ran from a man who claimed he was more a king than another, both of them playing a life size game of chess with the lives of those who could not get away. The common folk–most of us, those whose names will be lost when we last close our eyes. I’ve come to accept this but, as I’m sure my ancestors wondered: what will I do until then?
How do I make a life for myself? One I feel proud of, empowered in, one I love? Who will be in it? Where will it take place? In the glens of these hills or miles and miles away? How am I supposed to know?
You laugh in reply to all my questions.
It comes to me in the form of wind.
I miss every word.
If I spoke your language, what would you tell me of what’s to come? Or do you know, like me, only what you’ve seen? Perhaps we are the same in that way.
Twisted and turned. Yellows, greens, various shades of brown. This is what you can tell me, and even in the state I am, you wash away what holds me tight. How do you hold so much power? Is it the magic of the fairies that call your back home, or the simple fact that all that has happened here since humans came happened because of you?
Wherever it comes from, the power is undeniably there so I have a question, a favor truly, to ask. Harvest it, I beg, and call me home.
A thought came to me, as my time in your arms came to an end, as the twists and turns faded to light curves and the landscape fell to a series of smooth fields-will I ever see you again?
Maybe only you know.
Last time I pulled away I asked the same favor and I never thought I would be here, so soon again climbing upon your banks, my boots thick in the mud, and yet here I am.
So do the same. Call me home again. I am a wandering soul, it takes me longer than it should to learn where I am meant to go. You must howl at the top of your lungs, or my heart will not bled in the way that it should.