Souls, frostbitten and pain stricken, I want to pick them up from the ground and hold them in my arms, warm them, defrost them. Their entire being is held only loosely together by the few, sweet, long-lasting memories that they have salvaged from the wreckage of their minds.
They speak of old age and wiseness, claiming to know too much, dream-fully wishing to wind the years backwards to hope and future and desire. They yearn wholeheartedly for the days that love was alive and lust simmered with restlessness within them, before such fantasies turned into echoes from a far distant universe and they became birds of prey.
But they need not concern: they hold the hand of that child everyday. The tears and the neediness. And unlike their faded love for life, that child shall never part a separate way.
I took that lonely, determined art of youth and made her into a sculpture of my life today.