Struggling Authors

3 Monkeys

One is occupied with many small things: a hideaway is the best place to be. You can still see the others further away, between some leaves and fruits. Picking lice from your fur and picking up your own dropped bananas from the jungle floor is grand. You can get up early, before the sky is white and then go on. This is your path, few others know about it. Some of them shall never find out, or they better not. Hours will pass. You watch the whiteness turn blue and then red (sometimes purple). The password, the secret branch, is safe down there by the plant.

Another is in conversation and upset. Not many words or messages seem to get through. The tone is wildening. Some start screaming. A new participant jumps down from a nearby location, with wild arms and angry eyes. How can you get your message across to beings such as these? There is no understanding, no waiting and no listening. Extending your arms into an embrace will start a fight most likely. Turning your back on them will provoke. You begin a period of silence and watch the confusion. It is hard to accept being heard and the fury inflates. Small animals and insects join the arguing choir. New sounds that are frightening descend and ascend on you.

The third is the last in the band of seven ramblers. On the run and on the road it is hectic but also peaceful. In one way you watch her from afar – afar – with eyes of desire. There is a bend up ahead. Yesterday you came to this valley all but desolate. The silence was peaceful, the steps light and careful. It was electric and your back hair is still standing... still pointing that way.