Out Of The Meadow

January 4, 2009
I felt a lock of my hair tickle my face as it tangled in the quiet wind. It had been so long since I felt anything-it was hard to convey what thoughts lingered in my mind while I closed my eyes and for once, just breathed. I breathed in the smell of moths fluttering about; the smell of virgin grass, untouched, like humanity had once been before its fall. I wished with all my heart to walk into the busy street and alert the world of my existence. But dejectedly I realized no one would stop to listen. No, it was better to stay where I was, quiet and unspoiled as a stream in a hidden meadow, only heard by someone who ventured to enter a forbidden paradise. No one would dare to find me here. I’d be lost forever beside the moss that touched my bare and broken feet. I’d be eternally captivated by the canopy that soared high above my head now, with all its freedom and power gone unrecognized. Though, I thought, while the forest canopy remained stationary, it had seen more places, and had felt more emotions than my fragile body would ever allow. I heard the sweet flutter of the birds hovering beyond my nonexistence. I wanted to be found. Was it enough to simply desire something? Would someone come to me if I, a ghost wandering aimlessly around its unforgiving world, called for them? Or would the barrier between my meadow and the rest of society remain undisturbed? What if there was already someone here, but my ignorant eyes had failed to notice? Was I disturbing their existence? How many of us were there? Taking in my ragged breathes I stood where I was and made the decision to release the lion from its cage and cease to be the poltroon I had become. I ran. With every step I took I felt the dirt tickle between my toes and enjoyed it most ardently. Branches surrounding me scratched me, scarred me, until the smell of my own blood filtered the frigid winds now blowing against my torn skin. It was the smell of pure life, of complete insanity and purpose. I, the scared little child coated by the thriving ferns, had a purpose. I’d get away from the prison of my own insecurities that had grown a fortress before me and I’d freely taste what I deserved and supplicated so vehemently: acceptance.

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Picatso1 said...
Oct. 4, 2010 at 6:53 pm
Thank you for writing this.
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