I do not want to be blood and earth. Blood and earth is fallible, sore throats and coughing and running into walls.
I want to be theory and chalk. Theory and chalk is neat, logical, things lining up and meeting in myriad beautiful ways. Chalk is so much cleaner. Except when it gets on your fingers, but that is a blood and earth problem, I think.
Leave chalk alone.
I’m the blood and earth sister here. Give me something physical, sensuous, something I can hold in my hands and mold with my fingers. Give me something to shape and form, something rooted and composed of a thousand layers of shed skin and refuse and ground-down stones and the lives and deaths of a million creatures.
And be my sister, my theory and chalk sister. Give me your dreams, and I will give them form; give me your patterns, and I will lend them purpose. Without you, my blood and earth devolves to shapelessness, and without me, your theory and chalk is blown out in a breath.
*rolls all over you and gets chalk dust on your shirt*
Give me rich, messy earth any day. Give me the salt taste of blood on my lips and the pounding tempo of it rushing through my veins. Let me smear both across my face and scream in some wild mix of terror and ecstasy. I am not just earth, I am Earth, and I cannot be contained and quantified by all the chalk in the world.
Me, as fleeting and destructible as mere earth or chalk or thoughts? No, I think on a much bigger scale.
I am the sea and all her glory. I am the warm lapping waves that carry you ashore and the unfathomed depths that keep you coming back. I am the salty brine that bore you and fed you and got you dreaming. If you stand in the sea’s way it’ll just take another route, or wear you down until it can go right through; I am no different. I don’t pander, I don’t concede. I won’t be pushed without pushing back, won’t be used without affecting the user in turn.
The sea is indestructible, untameable, unphasable. Gritty and bloody with the best of them, yet purer than any desert. It’s delicate like glass and just as sharp, home of whimsy and terror alike. Blood and earth and chalk and even theories all turn to dust and blow away eventually, but not the sea. The sea lasts, and so will I.