You were drawing some clearwater from the well when you, by accident, scratched the formerly flawless palm of your hand to the craggy stone of its mouth, and you bled. You were so hurt that you dropped your bucket hard and spilled what you had collected earlier, leaving the bucket empty again, as it was in the first place. You fell to your knees with your tongue bitten by your own teeth, trying to control the pain you knew you couldn't contain. You, with a grimace on your face and tears dripping down your cheeks, looked so weak. You then froze, with your stare fixed at nothing but the air and your vocal cords voicing neither a scream nor a screech, though your eyes pleaded for help. You thought no one witnessed what calamity had struck you, but I did.
You pressed the other palm of your hand to your forehead, assuring yourself that what you came here for must be finished. You, all of a sudden, acted like you were as tough as a man made of steel. You, still in so much hurt, reckon yourself as unharmed as a surviving World War II soldier, perfectly armed. You got up on your own and walked back to where you were last, getting back to fighting for what you wanted to attain. You, now with a full bucket of fresh clearwater in the grip of your wounded but numb hand, stood straight on your feet, proud of how you rose from your downfall. You thought you were celebrating your victory by yourself, but you were not. You, in fact, were the one person I had always commemorated for, far inside the bushes I had been hiding in, only to be able to gaze at you, or to be precise, at the back of your shoulder.
You, with an exuberant countenance I had never seen before, hopped alternately on one foot and the other, heading back home.
You, with or without your triumph, had always been the one I would like to congratulate merely for being who you are, but never did, because I knew my utterance was despicable in contrast to what you were waiting for. You, roaming free, were the one whose steps I had always dreamed of walking by, but never did, because I knew yours would be used to run to what you had aimed high, far beyond what mine could go after. You, your head, and your heavy thinker mind were the ones I had always wanted to lend my shoulder for, but never did, because I knew you would not need mine to lean on. You were the one I had always been willing to share my final spare stock of drinkable water with, but never did, because I knew it would not be sufficient for your daily dose of need.
You, clearly, are destined to belong to that perilous but worthy clearwater well; that is not of mine.
