Withering

King Makanjuola
Sep 8, 2018 · 2 min read

Imagine for a moment that you were the leader of an ancient tribe of people who believed their leader must not walk. Imagine you used to walk, before you attained your position by triumphing in ritual combat; you walked to the river and to the farm, you chased after prey when hunting, you walked to rendezvous with your lover, but since you won your title according to the ancient laws you have been sitting in a sedan chair, carried around by four barrel-chested porters. Day after day, week after week, year after year, they pick you up off your bed at dawn, carry you to be cleansed at the waterfall, carry you to the council meeting, carry you back to your hut to sleep. Imagine one day, years after the last time you walked, there is a fire in your hut. Your subjects run for their lives, leaving you to your fate. You push yourself to your feet to try and save yourself. You raise a leg, but your body doesn’t remember how to move and you fall to the ground. Imagine you push yourself to your feet again, coughing violently, smoke stinging your eyes. Can you remember how to walk?


This is the way some of us feel. We haven’t done something in a long time, so long we don’t remember how. The neural paths have long been eroded, the muscles atrophied, the legs that you should walk with shriveled up. We don’t remember how to make friends, how to draw, how to tell the truth, or like me, how to love. And we believe it’s okay, we don’t think there’s anything wrong until there’s a fire, until we find out there’s someone in the world who needs nothing more than to be loved by us. I can feel myself choking already.

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