Red Root
Klethon Gomes dos Santos There are roots everywhere, and I am rooted. They are red roots in the
middle of the red, soft earth. I hear voices, sounds—my world shudders. Someone is crying, and then I cry too. My gory world, what could it be? There are no clouds, but what are clouds?
There are so many questions, but there is no time. I’m blossoming in my red world, and I only know the sweet, sharp voice of chance. Why am
I here? Why am I rooted? There is no answer, yet little by little, I cease
to be liquid without counting the infinity of time. I transmute myself and acknowledge my existence as I feel that something will happen.
I look around: my world gets smaller. I cry. I am confused; I kick the roots. I provoke pain, and I feel it. My world then contracts itself, and I hear a scream. Where does it come from?
I shrink myself. I am red and lonely. My world keeps diminishing, and I don’t know what to do. I am scared of what might happen if my world
reduces too much to the point I can’t fit into it anymore, so I push against the walls and my sky. Will I stop fitting into my world? I don’t know, but I
am overpowered by something deep inside me that moves me to fight for myself.
I hear a sharp cry. What happened? Is there another me? No, It’s her.
She’s sad, lost, and tired. I feel her, and I hear her because we are. She loves me more than anything else. She told me so, joyfully, while also
saying she would protect me. She told me many stories about a world
that doesn’t look like mine. I don’t know what her words mean. I can only trust her.
70
