Kill me

The lull after the storm,
The calm after the chaos.
No more weathering the storm,
Or an endless despair for dry land.
No more, no more!!!

The last drops of paint are now dry.
No more sketches on my clean wall,
No more incorrigible writings on the walls.
Pure white, whitewashed white, snow white.

My forest, my man-made forest.
Trees now growing in line like boy scouts,
Growing and maturing faster, like soft woods are meant to.
Bye hardwoods, bye bye disorderly trees.
I won't miss you, you grew too slowly anyway.

But....

It is not the hope of dry land that made the voyage enjoyable,
Nor did it prove the sturdiness of the boat,
Neither the tenacity of the sailors.

The neat whitewashed wall denies me the vigour of youth,
The beauty of splattered colours.
There are no messages in the worst of handwritings,
That point to a moment in time.
No colour, no collage, no beauty, no memories.

It takes ages to grow hardwoods, centuries even.
Then they have no order, no symmetry, just grow wherever and whenever they feel like.
But that's what makes a forest beautiful.

The promise of calm,
The spotless white,
The symmetrical artificial creation.

These are things cowards long for.
Nothing that the strength of love can give.

If you leave me, kill me.
For I cannot enjoy these.
I would rather the harsh storm, the badly coloured wall, the order-free forest.
For no his-story came from sailors who hated the sea and loved dry land.
No clean wall could tell her-story.
No man-made forest told their-story:

A love-story.

Don't leave me, but if you do, kill me!!!