A letter from the empty well
Dear River Pixel,
I have decided to put down the cup. Not because it is broken, but because it has been “empty” for too long.
I once thought we were two rivers meeting — refreshing each other as we flowed. But I have come to see that I have been the rain, while you have been the stone. I pour, you receive, but you do not return.
I have carried my bucket to your well too many times, and each time I return thirsty, not because you have no water, but because you choose not to draw it for me.
Your silences have been louder than your words. Your reappearances, though timed like comets, never carry the warmth of someone who remembers the last night’s conversation.
And so, for my own peace, I step back to where my soul can breathe. Not in anger, not in revenge, but in the quiet wisdom that says: "When a garden no longer grows, the gardener must tend another field."
I will not knock on your gate again, nor will I wait for you to open it. If one day you find my absence too loud to ignore, you will know where to find me, in the land where the cups are full, and the pouring is mutual.
Until then, I choose the dignity of drought over the slavery of an endless, empty fetch.
Elias Wabwire