To most, winter is an inhospitable time of the year. They fear the cold as if a bit of chill is the coming of Death himself. But I had no qualms with the cold, braving the November air in naught but a light jacket and shorts. At 11 years old, most kids my age weren't wearing jackets for the sole reason their mother had told them that they must. And yet, even now, those same were likely inside, huddled up in a blanket in their room with no reason to be outside in the cold. No reason for filial dissent. So, for a while, I walked alone.
I trudged through the grass slowly, taking time to examine the intricate lattice-work of frost on every blade of grass. The world had never felt so pure, so clean. The brisk November air seemed to hang heavily with anticipation of some significant occurrence. Of course, as is the case in most circumstances, the world remained still and taciturn. It was under this facade of placid silence that I met myself.
Growing up, I had always been in conflict with myself as to what I aspired to be. Everyone is familiar with the phrase 'you can be anything you want when you grow up.' It had been drilled in my head for nearly the last decade of my life. But even at so young an age, I understood that I had business in a profession I had no talent in. The sad truth was that I was not skilled in ANY sort of field. Math always came slowly to me, science bored me, and art was a dance I could never seem to learn. My growing impatience and insecurities began tearing at my conscience, perpetually reminding me that I was less than exemplary. These thoughts were filling my head, turning my mind to a roiling pit of uncertainty. Even so, a voice rang out in my head through the chaos, filling my ears and stopping me in my tracks. It was a soft, but somehow familiar voice. 'Hello', called the voice, its tone resonating from the back of my mind. My heart reached a near stand-still when I recognized the speaker. The voice was my own.
My brain and body conspired against me and boycotted their normal jobs, leaving me standing in my backyard. My feet were frozen from cold, my brain frozen from disbelief. 'Hello' the voice repeated. I could only stammer, hoping I was doing it in my head. 'W...who Are you?' My inner-self gave a knowing chuckle that was comforting, and somehow disturbing at the same time. 'I think we've established that already.' I contemplated this slowly, giving it a second to sink in. 'I'm...talking To myself?' Inner-me chuckled again, as if he expected such an uncertain response. 'Peculiar, isn't it? Never felt like the kind of person to have an inner monologue, did you?' I shook my head, only to quickly realize inner-me probably couldn't see this. Or...could He? 'Trust me, there's nothing inherently wrong with your psyche. You were just in need of a little...intervention.' The word perplexed me, being a staggering 1 year older than the double-digit milestone. 'It means you needed to be shown your own self-harm before it caused more of a problem.' Inner-me was a mind reader, as one could expect. The idea of talking to myself was a bit overwhelming, but I decided that if I had gone as far as to imagine a conversation with myself, there was no harm in seeing what I had to say. 'What do I need to do?'
That day, I found myself whilst sitting under a pine tree. 'You have much to learn, and you cannot forsake the possibility of a latent talent just now. You are young, and still possess the ability to change. Your mind is moldable and dynamic. It needs only an objective and a desire to achieve this goal.' I took in what I could, although, I guess in some way, I already knew all this. 'But..What could I be good at? I don't have any special skills, and I'm an average student.' I whimpered to myself. 'Take a look around.' The voice said. 'What do you notice?' I scanned my scenery, making note only of the dripping boughs of trees as the frost thawed and the hard ground softened. I could see nothing of immediate interest, reporting so to my inner-self. 'It's just a desolate, cold landscape. There's nothing interesting that I can tell.' My response went unanswered for a while, and I feared my inner-self had gone silent. Then, it replied with 'Do you not see opportunity here? This image is yours to warp and manipulate in any way you choose.' I didn't understand entirely, so I asked 'What do you mean?' My mind raced as I came up with an answer to give myself. 'What you see is merely what your eyes let you see. What you let others see is what your mind comes up with. There is never a limit to what you can tell, no limit on the stories you can tell. The only limit is in what you let yourself see.'
I awoke to find myself completely drenched, my clothes completely diluted in what used to be frost. A streak of sunshine danced across my cheek, striking my eye and making me wince. I was under the pine, where I had apparently dosed off. I shook my extremities to revive them from their slumber, and stood to clear my head. My mind was silent, without a word of advice or otherwise. I thought I had dreamed the whole ordeal, chalking it up to exhaustion. And yet, I felt a strange awakening in my mind. For the first time, I saw more than just what my eyes perceived. As I looked about, I could see even more. I could see all the possibilities of a story, the makings of a poem, the mechanics of a play. The elements were all there, I just didn't recognize them until that moment. I didn't have the makings of a mathematician, and I despised the thought of other such specialties. A story-teller, however, was a different story. Weaving words into a tapestry was more my speed. Yes, I would be a writer. I had little doubt in my mind of this. And what a first story I had to tell.
