the solitary life

Let's all be concerned about the boy with his head in his hands. The one who is thinking of dark voluminous clouds and whipping up storms around him. He isn't praying. Just thinking in circles. Implementing his temporary, make-shift solutions. His notebooks are cluttered in a manner that immitate his mind. Words, drawings, scribbles and scrawls sitting stubbornly on lined pages.
The same frustration sits in his aesthetic. Black. Grey. Black. Grey.

His partner is a Dandelion, rooted in earth. Unable to stray far. Waiting until she is plucked up, decidedly by some compassionate passer-by. Made weak by the wind. Depleting daily.

But one day, when the sun is shining. The Dandelion leaves her soily home, for a richer earth. For it is the rocks that weigh her down, that let the water of good foortunes drain from the dirt. The shadow of the boy with his head in his hands no longer present. She sits in the sun and is grateful for life.