Fall(Nov 2nd, 2012 at 06:41:44 PM)
The trees, still green, have taken on spots of orange and red. They look like mangoes. I want to peel them and suck the rough, sweet flesh within. People are like mangoes, somehow. Like organelles, we churn mechanically — constantly building, consuming, expanding. We form, bulbous, at the socket of some appendage, growing, ripening. Ripening. Ripening. And dropping off. The wind doesn't mind our bruises, it doesn't mind our colors, or patterns. As we fall to the ground with it's hand at our back, it doesn't care if we have a purpose, and it will never stop to consider our deeds. It tears us from the nipple of creation so we may create once more. People are like mangoes.