On this grey day

On this grey day, I’m dreaming of a sunlit forest.
Proud evergreens standing tall,
the scent of pine needles, wildflowers, and warmth in the air,
all around me: a glowing green.

On this grey day, I’m dreaming of snow.
Delicate, intricate crystals blanketing
the ground, the trees, the rooftops, my hat and the shoulders of my coat,
in magical, shimmering white.

On this grey day, I’m dreaming of flowers.
Thorny vines of crimson roses,
their velvet petals unfurled and emanating sweetness.
Happy daisies, joyful tulips, and ever-present, persistent dandelions
spotting green hills with their sunny yellow.

On this grey day, I fill my mind with color.
From the fiery orange of maple leaves,
to the sparkling blue of undisturbed lakes,
from the regal purple of tiny violets,
to the lovely, pure pink of cherry blossoms,

I fill my mind with color.

 

 

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Tension in the trees

On days when it is not windy I sense a tension in the trees. I feel the trees waiting, as if expecting something, holding their breaths. It is like the air is sizzling with lightning and any moment I could be struck. It feels like there are billions of thin invisible threads criss-crossing through the air. My breath feels stuck in my chest, unable to come in or go out, it has turned to solid and I choke. Eyes wide I turn to the trees for assistance but they are so far away and unmoving. Unmoving, unfeeling? It is a warm t-shirt kind of day but they seem to have been struck by winter, frozen. I wonder when spring will come.

Or perhaps I am just projecting. Perhaps I am just projecting my own longing. I feel myself wanting, craving something. Craving purpose. What is my life for? What should I do with it? How can I even know what I want?

When I ask myself what I want, the answers vary. I want to do good. I want to relax. I want to enjoy life. I want to feel deeply. I want to see beautiful things. I want to create something beautiful. I want to leave some sort of beauty in the world, even if it is small. I want the world to be what I thought it was when I was young. I saw the world in a gold hue, in long summers, in a self-absorbed way believing the world that was in my head was the same as the outside world.

I want all those things, but right now it feels like I am grasping in the dark. I can sense those things are there, I can feel the potential burning just out of reach of my fingertips, but I can not see the light. I am wandering around blindly, hoping to bump into something. I begin to feel hopeless and tired of walking. I want to lay down. It is comfortable and I say that I’ll only rest for 5 minutes, but somehow the time has lengthened into half a year. This frightens me, “Has it really been this long?” I think to myself. And now I am laying down not just to rest, but because I feel paralyzed, trapped.

But I want to move. So every other day, I force myself to at least get up and stand. I take one step forward, rest, and try another step. It is a slow process and I find myself giving up over and over again. But I have to move. I have to get out. I have to progress. As I write these words I stop and let myself soak into them. I’m ready to take the next step.