Short Fiction and the musings of an unknown writer, talking to the wind.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
They grow roots firmly in the dirt. Sprouting from the cracks are leafy branches and vines, their rapid expansion belying their youth. Each word, each idea, seeded deep into the mind. I can't predict how they will change, but I am in a subtle control. I allow it to grow. I watch like a parent watches a child become an individual, poking and prodding here and there in hopes that it's for the best. We die, never really knowing.