Hunting and gathering were secondary. As soon as we started to plant, we became indentured servants, but to what? The mind began to set schedules above everything and walking became an indulgence.
In the woods I walked with your ghost, long black dress, hair pulled back in a tight bun. I could feel your tears, smell your sweat. Or was it foliage? Freshly felled trees concealed dead chipmunks and hope. How does the sun know to come through the leaves and settle on dirt? Mushrooms are just the surface organ of infinite subterranean networks, onomatopoetic of the visible slice.
The earth was damp, and in some places we had to swim to get by. The smell of oak foliage mixed in with newly felled trees intoxicated just as it brought premature nostalgia.
What does it mean to to have a home? Is it better than not? We make up stories to justify our good feelings, all the while thirsting for the absolutes that do not exist. The universe doesn’t care if I wear brown shoes.