Memoir of a Tamarix

I do not remember the circumstances of my birth. I do not remember ever not being, so I must have always been. I do not remember being something other than what I am now. I have existed for as long as I have been here, and there is nothing I remember before then, so I must be the start of things. Not the origin, but one of the first.
For much time after I started to be, I had never realized I was. There was no beginning to my being; it had faded in at some point between the point I started to be and now. I simply realized one moment that I could realize, and everything came after that.
The first thing I remember remembering was the lovely liquid that fell from above. I remember how it cradled me in a cocoon of cold, wet comfort and how it nurtured me well as long as it graced me with its presence. As long as it fell and as long as I let it inside, it made me feel as if I was being with a purpose. With reasoning to my being. It still does. Cooling me to my core and reducing my thoughts from thoughts of meaning to thoughts of one who doesn’t think, every moment the liquid graces me with is a moment I long for and cherish.
That is not to say that moments without the liquid are painful. Not at all. After I couldn’t feel the liquid anymore, that sensation was taken over by a conflicting, but just as enjoyable sensation.
The warmth.
It moves from above every so often, starting on one side of my body and gliding to the other, and it drapes me in a much different feeling than the liquid does. While the liquid has weight to it, while it droops from my bow and slops onto the ground as it pleases, the warmth covers me in a sensation of growth, equally all over my body in the direction the warmth emanates from. The side not touched by the warmth does not bask in the loveliness of the warmth directly, but it does when the warmth moves to it. It travels the same pattern every moment it comes, from one side to another, but that does not mean I understand the warmth. 
While the cold liquid comes and goes, and graces me when I need it, the warmth arrives and departs as it pleases. There was something about this warmth I couldn’t quite know.
Why does the warmth move, but I do not? 
Why have I not been graced with the opportunity to follow the warmth?
If only I could move with the warmth, if only I could follow it, then I would be truly happy. During times of lack, where there is no liquid and no warmth, the time I exist is wasted. Only waiting for more liquid, more warmth, to be fulfilled and happy once again. 
I hope as I continue to be and the warmth passes again and again, one time as it comes it will stop. Just cease moving, even if that period is finite, just to allow me to bask for a moment longer. I feel fear when the warmth isn’t near. Will it return? Will it be as well as it was prior? The thought of a time without the warmth scares me immensely. It seems to dip in and glide out as it pleases, regardless of my wishes. What if it never returns? What should I do with myself then?
While I have never moved myself, I know some things can. I know there are things that can move. I have felt them. 
They rub around me and sometimes burrow into me. From down below. I can feel them even now, similar to the liquid but smaller and from below. They wriggle and slide around me, moving and collecting things from my base and leaving when they do so. What have I done to deserve being without control? I can think as hard as I would like to, but there is nothing to be done about those thoughts.
The things around me are allowed to do as they wish. I shall remain here indefinitely, not moving, not collecting, not leaving. Just here. Only here. At the complete mercy of the moving ones.
Yet the moving ones show no mercy to myself.
I can feel them taking advantage of me.
Ripping pieces of my flesh off and removing them. Digging holes in my body. Using my body as their personal warmth and liquid.
Just as I bask in the warmth and the liquid when they come, do the moving ones bask in the presence of myself? Do they enjoy the dryness of my body as I enjoy the feeling the warmth brings onto me?
If they do enjoy my body as such, then why does it hurt me so immensely?
Every day it seems to get more and more intense. The pain grows and grows, only to be vanquished by the liquid and return when it leaves.
The warmth and the liquid allow me to grow back the pieces of my flesh that have been ravaged by the moving ones, but I can never get enough warmth and liquid to make the pain go away. They always return. They move and they squirm from below, endlessly piercing me and puncturing my body until they deem my suffering enough, then they leave.
Recently, I have encountered a new form of moving. These aren’t like the other moving ones I have encountered before. This moving one is much like myself, in the way that it spends much of its time waiting for the liquid and the warmth. The difference being that there is never enough warmth or liquid to sustain this growth. It always wails and cries for more.
I can think the thoughts it thinks. I can hear the moving one, as ever since it dug into me, I could understand it. It grew up my side and winds around my body, constricting me and digging into my flesh. When it first started to, I could only hear it faintly. But now, it fills all my time.
It wails and cries for more warmth as it grows over me and blocks the warmth from touching my body. It wails and pleads for more liquid as it taps into my own reserves of liquid and saps it directly from me.
I cannot tell it that I need these things too because of how loudly it pleads to me and how often it cries for more.
But it is starting to hurt me just as much as it seems to hurt itself.
It is becoming hard to think with how loud the moving thing has grown over me. When the warmth comes, I barely bask in it at all because the moving one has grown closer to the warmth than I have, and it blocks the warmth from reaching me.
When the liquid comes, it glides over me and into my body, but then it is taken out as soon as it comes. Taken by the moving one. Comfort turned to complaining and pain.
That is all I feel now. Pain. I hope every moment of every day that it will stop. It is all I have ever wanted.
The warmth means not to me anymore. I just don’t want to feel the dearth I feel now. I need to feel. I want to be free. Unconstrained. Uncaring. Free to move and leave, so I can take things from the other moving ones and take it for my own.
But there is no acting on these thoughts. For they are just thoughts, and there is nothing I can do to stop them from being simple thoughts.
Just as I had come to exist out of nothingness, I fear I shall return to that place very soon.
I do not know what not knowing feels like, but it scares me. Much more than the pain ever could.
The pain never ends, but the warmth does.
The pain never ends, but the warmth does.
The pain never ends.
The pain.
Pain.
Category:Nature
Category:Weird