I use to wake up to the sound of birds chirping to each other in some language I was not expected to know. I would roll out of bed and not think about the comforting feeling of the carpet on my bare toes. I would look outside and see a million shades of green in the leaves. Watch as the bright blue skies went on forever, occasionally disturbed by a passing plane or the dancing clouds. When stepping outside I could smell the fresh green grass lingering in my nose. Or the honey suckles blooming in great numbers all around. But that was then. Today the world has become a windless beach; each grain of sand remains untouched, the waters lay like a motionless corpse, and silence fills the space laughter left behind. With the fresh blanket of snow locking in the color, I feel alone. In the morning, I awake to a loud silence that reminds me the birds have left. When I open my dreary eyes I remember I am now in a world that lacks color. I find myself waiting for the tornado to come and take me someplace over the rainbow. Once the covers are removed, a chill races across my once warm body. My body aches in the cold as I place my feet on the ruff floor. When stepping outside, there is the empty scent of bitter, white cold surrounding me. For the next few months I wait. Wait for the color to fill the spaces the snow hid. Wait for the return of the sun to bring tranquility back. I wait for summer.
A Windless Beach
March 18, 2008