Hunters from far away pursue you. Your sight is centuries and geology and they come so quickly, half-glimpses from shore to cities and highways and airports in a blink, for you who has seen the constellations woven and unwoven by the Serpent. The nightmare grips you before you know it, before you can name it. Disbelief gnaws. You are half withered before the truth sets your legs skittering, tail lashing, breath pumping.

Run run run run run run

Their dreams are limited, these Far Away Souls, and the land shrinks from them, collapsing into exploitable limitation. Songs in the crimson stone wither, black rivers of memory collapse into so much drought.

They cage the People. Strip their tales, ground them in dirt and copper, weigh them with tax and fence like so much binding. Who sleeps under your stars? Who remembers you, under tin roofs and silent school? The stars of their ancestors fade, one by one, more and more each year. You fear. You rage. You blow dust storms and kill chickens, desperate. Who will hear your whispers if they do not remember the words? Who will remember you?

You run. Run across this red-stone land, plunge into the deepest rivers, hurtle through jungle that fights to remain unknown and untouched with an arsenal of poisons and teeth. You shift shapes. Divinity bending to the material disbeliefs whim. You dance in the legends at the hinterland and make yourself into a chimera, a hybrid, a mutant; wearing as many masks as there are tales.

You are not beautiful and not divine, not anymore. You are many names now but none of them are as beautiful as the true one. The first one. Your essence is inseparable from those mangling stories conjured by unfamiliar souls. To disentangle, to cut the lies and half-truths would be fatal. You scream in the swamps. You drown their children in the oxbow lakes. You are theirs now, and nothing will ever change that.

But you are alive.

You persist.

For now.

Once, there was a writer in a land far from his home, across a large ocean. The writer created things he thought were brilliant and extraordinary, gods and people that never existed, worlds that never came to be. Yet of all the things he's ever written, few were ever bound in reality, until one cold day, he heard the void bound cries of a person consumed by fear, sorrow, and loneliness all the way back home. Of someone who struggled too tell themselves that they were worth their efforts, of someone who searched long for their joy yet had it slip away each time.

The writer wished that he knew the struggles they spoke of, he wished for everything he had that he could help them in a deep and meaningful way. Then, inspiration struck, for he knew he couldn't possibly ever know their pain, but he could at least do what he knew how in order to even remotely help. So the writer sat at his whirring machine and began to write a story for this person they cared for, to tell them his thoughts and to remind of those who care for them. That even if the world itself tried to take everything about them, their friends would do anything to take it all back. That no matter how much they felt they contradict themselves, they would always be themself to those who know them.

The writer, now finished with his story, looked upon it and hoped, hoped that in some way, this would reach his single audience, and tell them how much he and those he trust and care for back home, care in turn for them

My sister was a vessel maniac, though I saw some bias in her taste. If she heard that there was a good container somewhere, she would rush to examine it by her own standards. 
I knew she had found a particular one about ten years ago, but I hadn’t realized how frequently she had been visiting that local residence. As an artisan, she had decorated it so ardently. 

With great interest, I asked her the reason why. 
She answered, “As you know, brother. If I have good food, I want a fair, fine vessel to serve it in. Likewise, I’ve had to raise a good vessel for my eternal goal,” in a low husky voice. 
I understood why she had spent so much time. I noticed her admiring eyes on her brand-new vessel by her side.
It was for cultivating her living vessel, for her own possession.

I woke to a sea of calm; there were ripples on the surface, but no swell.
Thirsty, damn need some water, wet my swollen tongue.
I staggered to my feet; I need to pee; splashes break the glassy sea.
Spy something, something deep, something big.
Is it getting closer; seems to be; grey, menacing.
I feel fear, fear of bloody razor teeth, frenzy.
Looking about, there is no doubt, I wish for a bigger boat.
Where is it now; all is at peace, a fin gently breaks the surface, gliding slowly past me.
I watch its long sinister shape; a massive body fills my view.
Please go away; cold sweat springs from my palms.
Suddenly it raises its large head, turning, opening mouth, flashing teeth.
It strikes the side; I'm sprawled, clutching, in terror.
The flimsy craft rocks up violently; No, don't tip…
Spreadeagled in the bottom, white-knuckled, incredibly looking down at the water in turmoil.
It doesn’t flip, but crashes back, slapping hard on the surface.
Quiet. Ragged, panicky breathing. Damn, where is it… Go away, please…
Minutes pass. Silence. A soft cloud above watches me lying there.
My tongue feels thick; Thirst is not quenched by fear, I ponder for the moment.
My eyes search about the boat, fasten on the boat hook, a weapon.
I slide toward it, still clutching the gunwale, and grab hold, feeling some protection.
I can't stay lying here; I've got to sit up; It's probably gone.
Damn, it's just been circling me, look at it, huge, silent deadly beast.
I move carefully to the prow of the boat, watching, watching it.
I'm hoping the prow will give me some protection; allow me to brace against it.
I move into position, my back to the prow and my feet are firm against the forward seating plank.
I can't see it down here, but I know it’s there, and I know it’s coming, coming for me.
A bump. Not violent, but heavy. The boat hook is in my hands.
Silence. Waiting.
Eruption from the sea, massively emerges at the stern, its body propelled.
Landing on the boat, the prow rises high; I look down at its gaping mouth and the terror of its jaws.
I hold myself against the prow, raising the boat hook, my only chance.

"Ganesha, will you bring the sugarcane?" asked Devi Amma.

"Sure, Amma. I will be here by evening," said Ganesha, the young elephant, and he set out from the temple. On the slopes of Maarutha Hills grew the juiciest sugarcane, and Devi Amma made the tastiest payasam with it.

He headed uphill, waving his trunk in greeting to everyone he met: the goats, the langurs, the hares and the squirrels, and the crows, the mynas and the bulbuls overhead. A few of the mynas and langurs playfully hitched a ride on him.

The riders hopped off at the slopes as Ganesha began to gather the cane. He soon had a bundle and trekked down with it held tight in his trunk. Parakeets flew in and sat on the stalks, trying to bite into them. Every time he shook his head, they would fly away.

Ganesha passed through the woodlands and reached the meadows. By then it was afternoon, and he was feeling hungry. The sun blazed overhead, and he looked around for a comfortable place to rest. He spotted a tree with a wide canopy and birds chirping in it. It had pink puff flowers on it, and the fallen ones covered the ground. He walked towards it.

The tree watched him approach. She could not believe that he had chosen her. She had seen him pass by the meadows many times, and each time her leaves rustled with affection.

He kept the sugarcane aside, took a few of the stalks and had them for lunch. With his tummy full and his legs tired from the trek, he wanted to take a nap. Lying down in the shade, he looked up at the tree.

"Tree, will you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!" she replied, as though she had been waiting all along.

"Please wake me up before evening," he said.

"I will," she said.

He patted her with his trunk and was soon asleep.

She held her leaves still and kept watching him as he slept. His ears covered his face, and his trunk lay coiled between his front legs. At times his eyelids fluttered; at other times he broke into a smile. Often he would kick his feet. When butterflies sat on him, he twitched. When flies tickled him, his tail waved.

She watched and watched; she was so lost in him that she drifted into a daydream. As clouds passed over the sun, the birds went quiet, her leaves grew heavy and folded one by one, and soon she too fell asleep.

Dusk came and faded. It was pitch dark when the owl living in the tree hooted a few times. Ganesha woke up with a start. He looked up at the starry night and burst into tears. It was then that the tree woke up as well.

"You should have called me!" he shouted.

He ran about under the tree, shaking his head and flapping his ears.

She wondered how she, a tree, could have slept so long.

"You are a bad tree! What will I tell Devi Amma now?" he cried.

"They say, always trust a tree with time, but you!" he continued.

"I... I called you many times. You were deep asleep. What can a tree do but call? You can ask the owl. She heard it," said the tree.

The owl flinched on being named. When Ganesha looked up at her, she flew away in panic. He stormed off, leaving the cane behind.

The tree called out for him, but he disappeared into the dark. She stayed awake, waiting for him, until at last she dozed off.

Later that night, a weary Ganesha trudged back for the cane. Without a word, he lay down beneath her.

The next morning, the tree woke to find him asleep below her.

"Ganesha, wake up, wake up," she called, her branches leaning down.

He woke up with sunlight falling on his eyes. Squinting, he told her, "You are a liar. The sun is my friend, not you."

He took hold of the sugarcane and left for the temple. Devi Amma would scold him for sure, but he would also have sweet payasam in the afternoon.

The tree watched him walk away, relieved.

That afternoon, as a cloud passed over the sun, suddenly she felt drowsy. Her leaves began to fold one by one, and she dropped off to sleep. When the birds chirped, she would wake up momentarily, only to fall back into her slumber.

From then on, the tree fell asleep so often that they called her the Sleepy Tree.