people

A handful of rice. The oblong ivory grains all just lying one on top of the other, in a helpless and accepting manner. A set of coarse brown hands holds them, weather beaten with experience. The hands, with black lines running through it like bold charcoal marks through a chocolate backdrop, look strong and able, like they have tilled the land. The man who owns these hands is a toothless old man, with countless wrinkles running through all his dark skin. He smiles, causing all his wrinkles to come together just under his eyes in a beautiful fashion. Holding out his hands, he offers the rice to the land, Mother Earth, as she stands in front of him.

A gust. The wind plays around with her hair, as she runs onto a small merry go round. The small child that was once in her, the same child with no inhibition or worry or angst or pain or suffering, jumps up onto the merry go round. The tall, beautiful figure is no longer tall or beautiful, but short and childish, and playful, as she holds the bars of the merry go round as it goes around, and shrieks with a long forgotten happiness. The innocence and love of life runs through her, and for a moment, she has managed to reverse time.

The fury of the ocean rages around him. His boat shakes and rocks, in the hands of the storm. The sure footing he has on his tiny vessel, and the love in his eyes as he looks out onto mighty ocean betrays the sailor in his soul. His strong hands grasp the nets as they are pulled in, but not with malice or hate, but gently. The storm wails and screams around him, churning and tossing water; all around him exists chaos and disorder, yet he remains calm. He reflects the storm, acts as the negative, maintains the balance of nature in his soul.

So exist three different people, all bound by society and circumstance, to believe and think, to learn and understand, to find and explore, their own tiny corners in this vast and diverse world. Are they truly that different?