too many figs

Dearest ______,

Fickle women like us, we are but distant echoes of Slyvia’s words before she succumbed to a permanent state of dream-less sleep.
Too many figs.
Too many figs.

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“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, …
… I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

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Do we cut down this tree of perennial longing, stop it from bearing fruits of unattainable dreamjuice?
Our fertile minds, they sometimes imagine futures too full of self- expectation.
Too many figs.
Too many figs.

The more we grow them, the more we hunger.

Love,

Karlita

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Photography and text by Author unless otherwise stated. All rights reserved.

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