the garden within the wasteland

Ereo,1

It took me years, no, decades. My brain halted as the time around me paused and creaked and refused to even inch forward. All halted as if commanded by their heavenly creator, yet all aged and continued as normal. Every moment felt so stationary, yet the instant I reflected on it, it was gone. All the focus is on the bones and veins of my right arm, my body like a ship, reality as an ocean. A part of me has been shattered, yet all of me sinks. How long have I been wallowing in pain? How long have I been lamenting my luck? How much longer am I willing to remain nothing more than a fleeting legacy in the wind? Shall I be blown away by the gust? Shall I arise? No one asked those questions; no one wanted to know the answer. Yet my brain never grew tired of that question and kept asking me-not mockingly, for I knew my brain held more vindictive insults than semi-motivational questions. I had nothing more to comfort me; I was holding onto the memory of nothing. I had nothing more to do. Expect stand-up.

My legs carried me first, my feet planting to the floor to compensate for my arm, which I calmly rubbed the shoulder off with my other hand. My chest felt empty, nothing. My heart rang out slowly and silently, as if doing the minimum while awaiting the opportunity to clock out. Its ringing still caused my head to remain empty and heavy; all I had in possesion was my pride. Whatever shattered pieces of it I am able to gather, the sharp glass-like edges of it cut my hands and fingers as I struggle to place them all together, not into their original shape but into a weapon. Many nights have I spent under moonlit nights wishing and dreaming of a weapon that suits my soul. forged by my mind and sharpened by my love for whatever mission I was assigned. Yet now the sun shines too bright for me to sleep; no one is here to assign me missions. And any weapon produced by my mind would be as sharp as a stone. I finally rose to my feet, yet my body changed not in shape. I felt taller than before I fell. I turned my gaze upwards as the familiar wind dashed through and greeted my hair with such a gleeful nature. My hair itself was tired and shy, for I had kept it in isolation for many years and would have continued to do so if my helmet hadn't shattered. The sky was spotted with clouds and painted with a golden hue that shadowed the sky. a hue only shown in the sun's final hours in the sky.

The town around me now appeared rested and content with its new burnt appearance. If I called it a husk, it would imply that it was ever something great to begin with, for even if I was transformed from child to man within the confines of this town, I never held any chain that connected me to it in any manner other than physical. I had only returned here for the deer one who had raised me and later disgraced me with his actions and the women who occasionally granted me supplies. I didn't wish to confirm what happened to her. I do not wish to see more ashes that carry the smells of people I recognize.

"Where am I to be now?" was the question that rang throughout my mind. I've known only this town and these roads, and I wish not to confront the others even by cause of mistake, but as fate would have it, only one road was left. Only one destiny to walk, my dreams and all of my wisdom borrowed by all those before.

"If my own thoughts are borrowed, what stops me from walking a predetermined destiny?"

That was my internal answer to a question that none uttered and my excuse for why I began to march forward, taking not a moment of fresh air or a moment to care for my shattered arm as I walked. Where my feet were starting to lead me, I knew not, but I trusted them. I trust myself; both my mind and my soul are my most trusted companions. And with that mantra of self-trust repeated with each step of my march forward.

In between these moments, perhaps even hours, I found myself reflecting on one of my previous experiences, noting how the empty husks of the former glory of a desert may bring out such self-reflection on your own glory and past. Indeed, I had served and paid my time of lament and guilt-ridden thoughts. I began to review my own experiences as a mentor, a critic, a detractor, and an assessor of my own actions.