An Act of Violence
I can’t help but wonder if my presence is anything but disturbing. That others find a balance which I ultimately upset. My trips of late have been of increasing length, and not because I am going any greater distance. Nor are my destinations any more dangerous or of greater purpose, but I feel it gives my family more time to settle with each absence.
I never intended it to be this way…
My approach from the south brings me into the valley as the sun reaches its zenith. I know I will only approach my home from the other side of the lake as it dips behind the mountains, but I like it so. It frames my home in such a manner as I wish to be remembered, to be painted perhaps, to be recalled by future generations. Though I doubt it will, for my daughter never sees what I do in it.
Coming this way allows me time, and grants those of my household just as much to prepare for my arrival. I never surprise them with my return. It would do none of us any good. And that is bittersweet. I know it is. I try not to be one who is oblivious to the reactions of others. Yet my home does not provide the welcome I wish.
I step through the reeds and scatter the birds. I am the croc returning to the watering hole. All step lightly around me for fear of my bite, though I rumble rarely, and snap even less. Yet that fear remains. And it scares me.
The cities on the coast provide their excuses. Or so we all like to think. It is why I take myself there. And upon each return I find my daughter changed once more and into someone I don’t know. Though I wish I did. But I can’t help but think she is better without my presence.
Today’s art is courtesy of Masahiro Sawada from Krakow, Poland.