Notes from the Burning Age

by Claire North

Let not your hands fell the tree but that another is planted. Let not your ears hear the rain and think it falls for you. Let not your tongue speak of conquering the mountain, for it will not shiver when winter comes.

Grief never leaves, but life layers itself on top of the pain, time forming fresh scabs over bleeding wounds, no matter how much we wish we had stayed in the burning forest.

“We hide this from ourselves, not because knowledge is good or bad in and of itself, but because we are still so young on this planet. We are still children; still fascinated by playing with fire. In our minds – in our very DNA – we are still starving, driven by the terror of not having abundance. We must have more, and more, and more, in order to be safe, even when the truth is that we have more than enough. The reward we feel when we have more, more! It is intoxicating. I have been . . . intoxicated.”

Here I am. Sleepless at my desk. My face hurts.

My body hurts. I find words are difficult to concentrate on, a thin, shark-toothed gauze over my eyes. I read whole pages, and nothing has gone in, just words passing by. I find myself inclined to laugh uproariously at nothing at all. I feel incredibly sad at the smell of fresh pastries hot from the oven.