aimless spinning of the earth

inspired by Edvard Munch, "Two Women on the Shore"

we, she and I, my depression, together linger in those lonely days. she is weak, and she leans on me, so heavy against my lungs, so heavy, so heavy. I think, she has walked so many miles just to get here to another moment, and another, and another, like our steps. Steps turn into days; we trudge onward.

she and I, turn to face the past, which can be long in these lonely days, her face carries the weight of it, and she is too tired and too young, but too tired, too tired to see the past and wonder what might have been - It stares back at her face; unflinching; we turn, as do the days; we trudge onward.

we are not sisters, nor are we lovers, but something else, perhaps the same person, in two different bodies, in two different souls. together we hold a feeling of (not) love, and of something different altogether. Perhaps understanding, with knowledge that the world is indifferent to the suffering in our bones, with knowledge that we, she and I, are destined for the same journey. We have walked here for a purpose: we are going to the shore.

a leaf can cling to the tree that keeps it alive, but the wind will inevitably take it away, It will fall to the earth, to be stepped on, to crumble, to die, to be beautiful. a leaf can cling but that never lasts. which one of us is the leaf, she asks? she is fading fast, and I hold her. I am not sure - surely you are the one dying who clings to me, I am the one living, yes? then why do my lungs hurt, she asks? I see I am crushing her in my grip, she cannot breathe, she turns thin and I am clinging, clinging, clinging, like the leaf on that tree, I am screaming, don't leave me, Her hands batter and cling to my arms that crush her to me, and she is clinging, clinging, clinging, for her life, on my arms, she is crying, don't leave me she cries. we mourn. she lives. we keep on walking.

II. Young mother in migrant caravan runs from Border As her baby is bombed with tear gas. The pod has arrived and takes fire. Beached on the shore of the american dream, the mother awaits salvation, praying these rescuers away. on the edge of the border, their hands lie steady on the trigger. There are no tears in this desert, only salt. In this wasteland, there is no water to wash away the blood, only a warning from the wicked: in this world, you are Ahab, or the whale, and according to Ahab, it's kill or be killed.