The Truth Embarks a New Beginning

"I was my Mandala"

I was my Mandala

The day was soft and subtle, the air was cool and thin, and most of all, the wind was overzealous.

I stood near a tree branch, looking out into the sea of ice and patches of dirt.

Within that bubble, within the body of my cornered eutopia, within the strands of grass twinkling and sparkling across my fingertips like soft kisses of spring,

I found my Mandala.

The waves, rushing and roaring emotions like a cold hand touching the darkness within the depths of the cool and dusty air, whispered something that sounded vaguely of home.

While being full of nostalgia and warmth, the air smelled of how a piano sounds off-key.

Distant, cold, and unbearing.

I was reminded of my past in each chirp, gust of wind, and clash of waves.

I left my Mandala feeling broken.

The next day I returned and was met with a peacefully deafening quiet.

Some birds were cheering in intermittent crescendos while others painted a nostalgic two-beat melody.

The two-beat melody was a narrow reminder of my time in Belgium.

At my grandparent's house in the woods, I awoke every morning to that same sound.

That same song.

I heard my Mandala.

The second sound wave I experienced was that of happiness.

I heard children laughing and screaming, the sound felt like a warm blanket and a cup of tea on a cold and rainy day.

I measured the playful screaming in books I have read and words I have written.

I was reminded of who I was, am, and will be.

The cheers became the Harry Potter Movies.

The screams became my childhood playground.

The laughter became me.

I left my Mandala feeling whole.

The third day I returned to find my home crushed.

The wooden bricks, the beds of grass, and the roof of leaves...were gone.

The grass turned into dirt, the flowers turned into pieces of scrap metal, and the life my Mandala once had, became grief.

What was once a green terra incognita turned into a fast-paced cycle.

The living and breathing rust has overgrown what was once a great field of violet flowers.

I missed my Mandala.

I stood in a still picture.

The great tree above me representing the song of sorrow and grieving, granting life.

The trunk, impaled by great structures of rust and death, representing the endpoint of life and marking human interruption in nature.

The air was thick, unlike the first time I found my haven.

The chocolate and velvet smell felt hot,

And the restless roaring waves became a cry for summer depression.

My home became a refugee for nature's end...and I its primary target.

I was my Mandala.