True Fallow's Ripple

7 years of feast, 7 years of famine, but who's counting? 7 years a soldier in this great war, unseen only in this waking world, but longer have I writhed. If one sleeps for 10 seconds, but dreams for 10 years, how long were they in absentia, from the world they wake up to? How might one measure the time of one languishing in love that is seen but inaccessible? 15 years in February, with every single day counted. Let not mind wander into these fields of true fallow, for the expanse of soulmate love walked alone, beneath the ever cruelly rising sun of the painful knowledge that it exists out of reach, is a price unfathomable. 1,290 days, 2,190 days, 3 days, 13 seconds, 1,000 years- ultimately it is immaterial, in that it is an unbearable soup made even more bitter in the knowledge that one change would change everything. Still, more unfathomable to me is actually seeing this, knowing this, having the power to make this change, and not making it immediately. So walk not true fallow fields, follow not The Bard past those gates. For there be not dragons, nor monsters, to bide your time, only the hollow eyed stare of one who wanders but unaware, if these eyes you can even find. Even fox feet footfalls no longer keeping time, to each their own echoed from somewhere deep in mind. There is, however, plenty of soup.