Belonging

       I scarcely remember my homeland, where they took me from when I was very young. Sometimes, in the dead of night, as darkness grips the land, I can see glimpses in my addled mind - a vast red desert, a mass of stone buildings, a strong, chilly wind. Perhaps I was part of one of those buildings, huge masses rising high into the sky, built eons ago - a part of the whole, a cog in a massive wheel, each with its role and place. I wonder whether that’s where they took me from. And what then? Did the building crumble to the ground, a mass of rubble marking its grave? Or did they simply replace me, quickly and without hesitation, with another such as me, no different in its purpose?

       I often contemplate this, now for many years, or centuries, as I do not in earnest know or recall how much time has passed. All I know is, this is not my home. I am not from here, from this barren, white wasteland, where it seems the notion of colour has long disappeared, or never existed. It is all so bland, as if an artist had started to draw it but quickly gave up and moved on, leaving but a sketch behind. I can see the signs of it on myself as well - my native red colour is slowly fading, white spots covering me, as if I am slowly disappearing with time, everything that once made me new and unique, interesting even, slipping away.

       Why did they bring me here? They did not even make me a part of something. I just lie discarded, as if they thought better of whatever it was they brought me here for in the first place.

       And yet - does this not mean I am free, after a fashion, to find my own way? To discover that which I can be a vital part of, or better yet, to create it? Yes, how grand that would be! But where to start? After all, am I not but a stone in a universe of buildings?