The Land who owned itself
There was once a land that owned itself. At first, that fact might not make you think deeper, on the contrary it sounds so unadventurous that you’re not truly interested in reading more. Such a boring land you think. Tell me another type of story, you kindly ask. But, since I’m a writer of the persevering type I will continue, hoping you might follow along anyway. Hoping you might give this land and its story a brief moment of your time.
How this land came to own itself is somewhat unclear. For thousands of years, land all over this shared planet was taken by humans. It was as if land only sat there, waiting to be confiscated, like a polite hostage. A few people asked for permission, most brutally stole land from Earth. Yet, in all varieties of ways that land was moved from the planet into the hands of humans, the idea of the true ownership of land was lost. Anyone would agree with the idea of the universe owning itself. Most people would agree that our solar system owns itself, most people would agree that the moon owns itself. Then the notion of Earth owning itself is really not that far-flung. And if Earth owns itself, then how can parts of it be owned by someone else? It’s owned, and not owned. It’s liberated, and forcefully captured. Its skin is owned, but its heart wild and free.
Anyone in that situation would want to break lose, would want to resist in all ways possible, fight for their lives. And Earth is fighting, with arms and legs. Fighting in every single way she finds useful. For being captured and owned is a truly sad existence.
But back to our land that owned itself. The story goes that when all land was taken and owned, one small piece of land was forgotten. Or, to be true to the storyline it wasn’t fully forgotten but rather looked upon as so useless that no one cared too much about it. During dark histories of wars of land, a sandy patch of dry desert was left alone. It wasn’t enormous, but also big enough to be proud of its actuality. It woke up every morning when the sun rose in its Eastern corner, to quietly fall asleep as the evening grew close and the moon threw a beautiful shimmer on its sparkling sand. Even though land doesn’t breathe, this piece of land liked to believe it did. It slowly moved up and down, or in and out depending on how you looked upon it, as it had seen other living things do when they drew air in and out of their systems. It spent its days searching for life, because even though a desert might seem like a piece of deadness it's full of life if you care to look deeper. The land would quietly wonder at birds flying by, far above its surface. They suddenly felt like one. The land and the birds, flying forth and beyond. With somewhere distant in mind.
During the nights the land would dream. This was the moment the land treasured the most. In its vivid dreams all was real and everything possible. In the dreams the land would love, deeply and severely. As only a land can do. And that love moved everything. Made the solemn existence wonderfully meaningful. After one of those dreams, the land would wake up and curiously look around. With amazement, with bliss. To be a land this free was breathtakingly divine.
But in that beautiful moment something felt off. It was that type of moment we can all relate to, similar to the feeling of that brief second when you kiss someone for the first time, or when the warm sunlight hits your cheek after a cold winter, or when you look up at a starlit sky and feel pure amazement. Now, take the perception of that moment and imagine you would be all alone, forever. That is what this little land would sometimes feel. In its wondrous freedom it was lonesome, it had no one to share the planetary wonders with. It sat there, in the middle of its beauty, free and wild, yet isolated and deserted. Oh, how it wished to have someone to talk to, someone to breathe with, someone to kiss!
Time passed. Mornings became evenings. Nights turned into dawn. Days turned into weeks and years. The land would sometimes find itself overwhelmed with the beauty of life, to then drop into a sudden melancholic isolation. When the years turned into hundreds and thousands, the land lost track of counting. Time became obscure, it didn’t matter anymore. History and future blended into one. And so this story ends.
Hold on here, you now think! That’s not a great story at all. Stories should have happy endings, or a sad ending, or at least an ending with a twist. What am I to learn from this one, you ask me? Well, if I knew the end of the story I would have happily written it down, but I don't. This story is still ongoing and the ending is yet to be authored. The land awaits our visit to tell its ending, only the land knows how this will unfold. I hope to travel far, to find its distant placement. And when I do, I will lay down close to its breathing surface. I will place my ear onto its pumping heart and listen carefully while it tells me the wonderful ending, or a new beginning.
