Words of the Weak: Mother Earth

She sat there. She didn’t mind the litty fleshy explorer navigating her skin.

It started high, around the valley of her left ear lobe. Rouge on her cheeks was gravely and salty; like navigating an ocean jetty. Then it traveled south, down a channel created between chin and neck. The further south, the more sweet the journey. At the shoulder, a black cloud cover was unsnapped and husked. The pulpy and small, mauve explorer went ashore and climbed mountains. The slopes were gentle and smooth with a slight taste of burnt wood and sugar like a fine eighteen year Scotch. At the summit, the explorer staked his claim, and, is if to congratulate him, the peaks purred under his touch. He watched over his domain, ensuring its safety until finally the frigid air gave chills. He was in search of more hospitable land; something yet sweeter and warmer.

A small trek from the alps lay a desert. The climate warmed. The sqautty little navigator began to sweat, nervous of the heat. The sands were beautifully flaxen, with a touch of coffee and covered the divide in one subtle dune. The explorer slimed his way across, sweaty and thristy, picking up a most delectable taste farther south, but the path was long still. When at last his endurance exhausted, the traveler dug deep with the pit of the dune, in search of refreshment. It was a small, shallow hole and afforded the visitor no reward. It was dark and dry and rather uninteresting.

It was then, that the intimidation and doubt doubled him over. It was his first journey on such wonderfully sweet lands, and the it seemed hard, too difficult. He was afraid, and scared. Would he last until salvation? Why had he left the moutainous peaks, where the view of everything was idyllic, and the climate hospitable? If he failed now, would he ever find his way back home, able to journey once again?

But just then, he once again tasted that creamy perfume from not too far off and within him grew a lust.

He must go forth and find its origin. Insecurities be damned, he would travel forth.

Further on the fragrance strengthened, and layers in the taste separated: there was jasmine and palm, alder and moss and a touch of sea. Such a wonderful bouquet of flavors that traveler now longed, desired to pick each individually, petal by petal.

At the edge of the dune laid a great, tropical forest. The heat greatened and the explorer started to melt like candle wax. He struggled at the forest, twisting and knotting around, through, above and under each individual folicle of the forest.

And at the edge of collapse, of death, he found it. The origin.

An oasis.

The temperature, though warm, was pallatable, not sweltering. The air was moist, and answered his dryness, thirst. A calm babbling brook chased beneath his step, and there weas plenty on which to dine. There was everything he would ever need, and he was in no rush to leave.

For an eternity he stayed there, in the nook of the heaven-like oasis, but even he grew tired of the same, common surroundings. For he was an explorer, and explorers bore of traditional setting and must set out for more.

He had battled insecurities, fear, all terrains, wonderful and terrible and while almost getting crushed under the weight of the journey, he had survived. No longer an novice on the path, he desired another new Earth to discover.

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