We wear blinkers to protect our eyes.
Scarlet flows with a cut.
Savage stories survive out there.
There is a pair of Eskimo socks.
I have had them since I was five or six years old.
Where did these socks come from?
Who made them?
Childs-play
I played with a little girl in the sandpit.
She knew where the socks came from.
She lived with her missionary parents.
She lived with the people who made the socks.
She was brought up in a place where all is white.
I look around at my comfortable home.
I am surrounded by objects coming from other places.
The objects are made by people whose lives I cannot imagine.
I have been thinking about those Eskimo socks recently.
An eye-opener.
The little girl is long since gone.
She went to India to travel.
It was an eye-opener.
She saw people dying in a street.
Nobody seemed to care.
She cared too much.
She came back home.
She took her life.
Blinkers.
I think of the Eskimo socks.
I think of the Eskimo blinkers.
I am glad that I see so little.
blinders
ReplyDeleteignorance is bliss
it just hurts too much
is it hopeless
writing is like opening a vein
why we do what we do
why do we do what we do
she is why
Susan. I think you have helped me understand the connection. You are right. Writing somehow makes it feel better, however pointless it might seem.
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