On Living Elsewhere.
The wind begins to howl; my shirt bustles, almost restless. I look around to the snow-covered forest around me. I look to the snow-kissed bushes, to the heavily leafed trees further leaning downwards, the lake on the horizon seeming to expand forever onwards, expanding still as I stare. Be damned the consequences, I can’t help the feeling of wanting to go in.
I curl my feet, just to feel the cold dirt and snow dig in-between my toes. The need for stimulation beyond the piercing cold makes me curl tighter. The flesh of my soles and toes stretch and give me a sense of temporary relief, giving me my wanted distraction.
Memories of a different time, of a different place, press gently into my skull. Almost like soft cotton across the skin; fading as quickly as it comes. A final ode’ to a fading memory.
When I am here, I don’t think of much else. Questions; who, what, where, why, how, when, etc.; they do not plaque my thoughts anymore. Fate, circumstances, and my actions have ripped them away from me. They’ve forced our separation… and I cannot say I don’t feel a familiarity with our tearing.
Even with my arms lined with goosebumps and my slowing breath coming out in visible puffs, I’m not scared. I won’t ever be scared.
Close your eyes and listen to the birds in the trees, listen to their soft yawping, listen to the boat and dock in a constant creak; the melody of nature. Ironic, ironic, that the world I perceive looks infinitely more beautiful when time, as relative as it is, has been shortened... I am beautiful in the graces of the shadows, in the shadows of the trees. Their calmness and serenity feels as if they’ve welcomed me.
Beautiful when the moon is seemingly full and light reflects off of my body, when the wolves howl in harmony like a song for my being. Their song takes me now to dream, my body warm to the touch becomes one with the breeze. I feel beautiful here, always. I am beautiful now, always.
On living elsewhere? I am somewhere now, always.
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