She would rather not be told what she should or shouldn’t do. Her ears can’t translate the hate-speak of today. Her’s is a language of the wind in the trees, the babbling brooks, the rushing rivers, a crackling fire, and the calling of the Raven.
There were no banks. The wealth of one person was banked as memory. The wealth of one family was banked as progeny. The wealth of one tribe was banked in stories. The wealth of one story was banked in continuity.
On that day I stood tall, at the foot of my death bed, metaphysically. Knowing that to start anew I’d have to crawl, and this transformation was aphoristically. The past has faded. The future doesn’t exist. Time is illusorily jaded.