4/28/21
And so she walked. She walked across grass, as if it were as pillowy as the clouds in the sky above. The earth itself reaches for her; reaching to connect with the fruit of its own labor. She floats through the meadow like she was born to ride the whistling waves of the grass that the wind produces, surfing with the bare soles of her feet. In the distance she hears the deafening buzz of the cicadas, flexing their muscles and contracting their ribs in a large collective cry. And yet their fervent hum could be taken in agony or cathartic release: natures orchestra filling a void. Her feet push off the ground with such strength, and land with such grace, as she skips and skips and skips to the patch of flowers just over the hill. Her curls fall so loosely to her shoulders with each bounce, angelic and instinctive, dancing like the mesmerizing flicker of the flame that ignites her exuberant soul. Her hands sort through the flowers, and pluck those that match her beauty, lifting them to her face and resting them gently in between the coils of her hair. She continues her wander, to which there seems to be no end, and with each additional step she morphs her walk to a waltz. She extends her leg forwards, leading with a pointed toe and contagious joy, swinging her arms around and lifting her chest to the sky. Her unclasped hands search through the air, but there’s nothing to grab onto. No trees with outstretched limbs, or hands to catch her plunging elbow before the fatal fall.
And yet with all her beauty, she spends too much time in that head of hers, filling it with thoughts of how and why. Thoughts of her multifaceted self, with as many avenues as neurons, and a heart that seeks relief. A heart that believes prevention is possible through perfection, and a brain that knows better. A brain that knows better, but is in love with the heart—willing to search to the edge of its own universe to remedy its impossible naivety. She gets stuck. She lives inside the walls of her skull and beats her fists on them until they’re bloodied and raw. Her mind is her prison. And yet her heart loves her brain just the same. To her heart, her brain is an enigma; delicate and profound. So deserving of compassion and love, that the brain refuses from the heart. And so, she is ruled by a heart and a mind who shut out each other’s love. The weight of this endeavor sits at the crown of her head, and drags her down to the root of the earth.
Her silky white dress falls around her like the Madonna and the grass smells sweet; freshly watered for the showers of the day before. There was a fawn hiding in the nearby woods, observing this girl in all her beauty and her dancing and her instinct to wander. There was fascination and awe of the human girl who had such ease and trust in each step, that even the earth wanted to meet her halfway for their exchange. She commanded the natural world around her to love her as much as she loved it back, especially when she was unable to give it to herself. She was magic, and the fawn could see that even when the girl could not. Emerging from the shade of the lucid wood, curiosity overcoming fear, the fawn pranced over to the girl. She lies still, as the face of the fawn hovers just above her own, and while the fawn lays a kiss on her forehead. It is just them, and the hum of the cicadas.