ree’s monologue
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wise and whimsical; curing the nonchalance epidemic one post at a time | @adialoguebot | @therantingbot - anonymous
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Throwback to the wish I hung upon a wishing tree on the 23rd of May. An old promise, a distant whisper, a loose thread, a string of letters inscribed tens of times before meeting the hanging card.
Now it’s out there in some corner of the world. Maybe in a pile where all the wishes-unfulfilled go? But in recalling the words of Kait Rokowski, “Nothing ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry,” this poetic fate becomes absurdly insignificant. The more reasonable ending is that the card must be in some dumpster, with a more reasonable wish to replace it on the tree.
“Nothing ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” My blood will continue to circulate the maze under my skin. Though sometimes, it escapes in a stress-induced nosebleed or a careless cut of a kitchen knife (my absentmindedness a partner in crime). But it mostly remains vesseled; futile in its attempts, it can only rise to color the constellations on my cheek or the whiteness of my eye.
Speak of a wandering mind. All of this to say, I’m alive—evident by the flow of my blood and the warmth of my skin—and for as long as that, I’ll be wishing for a version of life in a world that likes me a bit more the next time around.
