I have been working on a collaborative project of sorts for the past two years, a publication, some might call it. There has been a lot of emotional connectivity established to this, and a lot of personal sacrifice. To be quite serious, this outlet has provided a lot of salvation as well, for myself, and for others.
But as of late, despite the interruptions provided by any barriers outside of our control (such as those found within the limitations of printing opportunities), there has been a void of action. Inaction has followed. A decline in will. Ambition. The follow through movement that enacts the spiral of a thrown football. It has fallen far short of its expectations.
And there is a question slowly rising, out of the ashes, whether this is something worth letting stand on its own. It is a fawn, a fawn in the grass, that the doe has hid for far too long. Its muscles are sore. Its mother had suffered through its pregnancy during a drought, and with the coming of the rain, left to hopefully feed in a lush meadow. It would have to avoid being slain by eager hunters, of both human or predatory varieties, and has yet to return. In any case, it has been too long, and the fawn, once feeble, must prove itself, must come to terms with the independent nature of its existence, and must work for its survival. It has to stand up on its own, and walk about, run, frolick, fall, and regain its balance. It has to learn how to eat the foliage, and gain its nourishment from more than its mother’s reassuring milk. Its digestive system has developed enough where it can handle it, but mentally, its instincts cause the fawn to nestle closer to the soil, and amongst the protective stalks.
So yes, the fawn must soon stand on its legs, if it hopes to live. And the mother, if she is to return, must cope with its loss because even if the fawn succumbs to the elements, or thrives, its life must continue.
Right?
The problem at hand is going to be coaxing the fawn out of its hiding place.
