46 readings

3 votes

Qualified

I once thought I didn’t know how to tell how time flies; tracking, following, and racing it always felt like a betrayal to my own identity, as if I was susceptible to guilt by simply hoping time would go by faster, or rebuke the minutes and seconds that seem to fly away without my permission. Letting the days pass by with the gentle minutes that seem to wade through my jumbled plans always accentuated the need to just breathe. The poetry of delicate wood shardings only grew thorns in my skin in an attempt to harden the soft leaves within me. This was the impression society left on my body. Words encourage one to block out the opposing voices to bring some hope to the soft voice of oneself, but I suppose they never thought the weaker ones could be the slightest bit strong.

The masters of transition seem to have adapted to the faithful plans that were unseen, as they resist the gentle sadness with courage as the shades of red and brown drift further and further away from the life of its home, though the tree continues to breathe day by day despite the pain. The window to finding comfort from the left cycle of the world opens a bit in this journey.

Looking out into the field of wheatgrass fluttering through the whip of the wind, the singing land seems to fade into the distance, until you couldn't picture how far it went. A path that breathed life in and out of the air, one brushed a stone aside, and stepped forward.

“You look beautiful, love” my mom commented.

My reflection in the mirror satisfied me enough, though the threat of a curl wavered with the slightest glimpse of a wisp.

“I guess. You think so?”

“Of course! Foolish girl, you always never think of yourself in the highest light, that someone would love to be with you.”

I chuckled, partly with sarcasm.

“You don’t think someone would wake up and brighten with the thought of meeting you?” She asked, with a glimmering spark in her expression.

“No. Not until now.”

The breeze whipped across one’s face, with a tense and slashing movement. Dancing wheatgrass cowered from its force, and the top of the sturdy branches even seemed to tremble.

My hands clenched, shaking with sweat and nausea before I could even identify what I was feeling. Fingers going numb, it seemed like a layer of snow frosted overnight and decided to rest for the evening on my hands. The sound of music surrounded me in the backstage lobby, bounding me in the home of classical music. My nerves seemed to jump at every note that left a mark in the hall and danced among the audience. My heartbeat quickened, my body tried to outrace my mind when all I could do was control each note and motion with all my strength.

The wind quickly turned fierce, and all once serene melodies grew into a storm.

The room seemed to shine the spotlight on me, as I trembled with growing adrenaline.

It raced with impending energy. Faster and faster.

My throat went dry. Pacing around the room, the notes of Chopin filled my mind.

In the once quiet field, leaves flew in a spinning path of yellow and red. Uncertainty seemed to whip around the air as the force enveloped oneself with an urge to surrender.

A breath of air entered my body, and the room returned to its conventional space. Somehow, I managed to open my eyes. Walking towards the stage, only a few seconds lingered before I would be herded in front of the audience.

At last, the leaves cascaded down in a delicate shower.

Laying down my music on my seat, I walked onto the stage, hoping my sensitivity wouldn't fail to serve me now.

The growling wind slowed to its relieving breeze with the slightest sense of hesitation, and the land rejoiced in its mercy.

In the field of wheatgrass, a study, comforting presence of a tall oak stood in the distance. One walked through the long plants that brushed against one's skin; pricked by the gentle tips of grass. The solace of nature's home was only so far.

I packed my bags into the car, questioning how many vehicles would be used to fit 9 years of a life into the mobile's small, dusty spaces. Picture frames and book covers with ripped edges peeked out of the endless contents of a brown box. Even as others consoled me from the end of a chapter in a beautiful home, the feeling of moving forward left peace rather than doubt. I suppose I liked the idea of something new, and perhaps it accounted for the mindset I carried into my new house along with a box of memories.

Carefully stepping under the oak's bold presence, reverence washed over every ridge and line of the dark brown trunk. And the appreciation of rest carried one to rest against the brown sturdy core, sinking into the ridges of the breathing oak they would return to for the rest of their life. If there's beauty in the words of the woods, one only can strive to remember the beauty that is unseen by society. Chaos and peace would walk out from one's heart, and only the ferocity of the wind and character of the trees would understand. But, Nature's arms would always reach down to hug one who needed to find rest in a constant home that was branched off from the rest of the world.

3 VOTES

A few words for the author? Comment below.

Take a look at our advice on commenting here

To post comments, please