Curry

Maybe it's just the people with whom we feel infinite: who are lazy unless required, and who it's okay to hurt and be hurt by. Maybe it's because, in peaceful times, our hands smell of their hair.

Maybe it's just thanks left over from last night's sleep slept in sound safety, or the concealed bruises from today's; maybe it's because they laugh and smile when we lose balance and trip, and don't catch us unless we ask: maybe, it's because they gladly allow us to be stronger than we know ourselves to be.

Or maybe, like we've learnt so many times, and convinced ourselves otherwise so many times, the children of that old unkind evil inhuman human tree never fall far away from their roots; and all that we perceive, at dawn or under the grey sky or in the ominous rain or in packed buses and empty rooms and leafy ledges and tethered cables and spinning beasts and Bluetooth shares and white lies, is, maybe, nothing.