seeds in the dark

A child in my crib

I saw my brother move around the world freely

creating dreams and monsters and missions from paper and clay and the space between his eyes

I wanted only to be like him

in time, bad luck, bad drugs, bad choices, bad timing, bad stars, stubborn thinking, all the shit that happened in his life scared me away from monsters and missions and making things from paper and clay.

Finance! I thought, marketing, administration. That's for me.  I'll sit on boards and chase debutants.  I'll play golf.  I'll join the country club.  I'll do anything except be an artist.  

a world not made for me, and I not for it

that world was a desert around me.  oceans and oceans of sand, without a leaf of life to be found

Then the day he died, I thought: "where are we now, brother?  Where are we now?  

You're dead; I'm broken.  Neither of us are creating anything.  Where are we now?"

a failed experiment.  I thought.  and I closed my eyes on the world.

The world doesn't work that way, though.  

Seeds sprout in the dark.  They push. They strain.   Their tendrils break through anything to find the light.  

A tree grew in me.  Its boughs and branches broke down every wall I built around them.  

a life tree.  a world tree.  Stronger than I ever imagined.

A tree, from a seed, given me by my brother, when I was a baby in the crib