Every person had at least one incredible story frolicking inside them. But the market chose quick satisfaction, supermarket weekends, air-conditioned adventures, television colonisation, thought minimalisation, bomb production. It made the story people tired.
Stories died. Souls put to paper, internal battles portrayed in magic metaphors were blown into the air, then caught in nets and buried under desert dirt. There were giant holes in life, dry tongues, faceless people, homeless kisses, and the unheard stories accumulated into people storms, apathy rain, colonised minds, mass forgetfulness, scorned softness.
Yet under desert dirt, story seeds, craving better times, still frolicked.
-by Tamara Pearson – The Butterfly Prison