How like the mountain, confident, the world around me stands, defiant hands upon hips, lips issuing demands. Am I the only shattered soul who’s sometimes lost her way?
Sometimes I look into my drawer of old sketches, take one out, and admire the dark lines and etches. Memories are recalled, all unique and precious.
Miracles are quiet, great as the blades of mountains that rise and score the clouds, rending greater gashes and letting light inside a world that’s gone too loud.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? How teachers often tell us that any question is a bright question, and a good question’s only job is to be asked. But kindergarten was sixteen years ago, and my teachers don’t say this anymore. We stopped talking about questions a long time ago.
I took a walk among the forest pines to be alone, away from all mankind, to listen to the sound of nothingness, and leave my doubts and worries far behind. As I wandered beneath a maple maid, I breathed into my lungs the virgin air, unspoiled as of yet, and ripe with scents of spicy hemlock with a piney flair.
I don’t remember living without this doubt. Confidence was suspicious, like the shadows of dark streets that I never dared wander. Certainty was the friend I watched others get to know, wondering if she would happen to notice me by accident. I don’t remember living without walls around my bedroom and thoughts.
The snickering blade draws a fine, sharp smile across the wrinkled surface of my thumb, and the bread I pursued with all my guile turns real, running flesh and blood. Numb with pain, I watch and wait as dark wells in and out.
Yesterday was an ordinary day. I don’t mean that I spent it marching through the mundane, looking for glimpses of something new to steer me off my road of routine. I mean that I never lifted my head to check. I don’t mean that the rhythm of my steps was in ticking time with my cadent pulse. I mean that some moments I couldn’t feel my heart beating at all.
At dusk the old world lives again as faeries fill the open air. The Small Folk come, the world reclaim; they journey from I know not where.
I have to give a speech this term—and, frankly, I’m afraid. It’s not my form of fun, and now I’m speaking for a grade. I have to give a speech this term and share my thoughts aloud. They say it’s just like writing, but the difference is a crowd.