peace is a privilege
Richie Dillard
At the heart of the labyrinth is a luscious green field. A still, calming center to the arduous veins that run through the buildings. I look out from the shadows to this shining light. I spend my days in hidden hallways and the isolated paths I must construct. My peers, my superiors, cut across with ease. Self-assured steps engulf gravel and grass, climbing the paths that devastate my feeble form. I envy their independence and how they can bathe in the warmth of the sun. What do I know of this peace? This pleasure? This carefree ignorance? I must meticulously plan every step before I take it. The map of malady I manage in my mind is a mystery to them. Each step to this heart weighs heavy on my fragile frame. It is painfully clear that I do not belong here.
I sit in the courtyard and fix my cane.