My roots are compacting in the efficiency apartment of this transient, options-open life. The stresses of constant transplanting show in my leaves, wilted and gone. Like a tree without soil, I am tangle above and below, roots and branches, with nothing to tell the difference, or which way is up in the uprooting.
Perhaps our generation craves community because we are starved for it, often having sacrificed it for adventure and opportunity. We consume intensive bouts of temporary community like energy bars--summer camps, mission trips, weekend and weeklong conferences--ingesting artificially high concentrations of the vitamins and calories we need, sans the ability to actually fill our stomachs.
The truth is, I'm hungry, and I do not want to be held over.
I'll wait for the feast.
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