The branches of the tree I sit beneath rub against the back of my neck. Willow, I think, from the leaves; the strange smell. Is it only I that smells the Willow as an ancient torch burned with sigils and forgotten wisdoms?
I seek peace within the outdoors today. The day is unnoteworthy at least, clear skies and a gentle sun. The breeze carries the leftovers of fresh bread and cut grass, a pleasant smell to replace wood smoke.
What do I seek peace from? My soul has stirred with unrest since dawn. I feel the need to walk and breathe, but also escape my skin. It is tight, to small for whatever is being held inside myself. Maybe I am a soul of light and stars, of supernovas breaking over a deep ocean. Or maybe I am thunderclouds, roiling within their confines. Torrents of rain batter my fragile veins, seeking a way out.
Musings of length, I apologize. Such surroundings prompt them, I think. The Willow, yes, back to that.
It's bark is roughly worn, child scarred, climbed and used. When I walk to work I hear giggles from its branches. They shiver and shake with the small weights of those tiny humans. They bring me a small joy, their light laughter.
Under rain and heavy winds it sways, dancing under the sky's giving. Weeping branches tangle among themselves, singing songs of the elders.
I hope that my soul, whatever it may be, comes back to this beautiful earth as a willow. So I can grow bathed in sunlight and moonlight, digging deep and rising high. Becoming a cradle for the happiness of children.
Yes, yes, that is it.
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Scraps of A Mind
Ficción GeneralUnder my feet is the earth, above my small form is the sky. Both seem endless and vast, stretching onwards forever. In between these things are thoughts, rattling around in my brain like a landslide with no direction. Here are some thoughts, the one...
