She was thinking of nothing in particular when outside, the first flakes of snow began to swirl downwards to our world. She imagined the purity that would blanket all in a comfortable whiteness, numbing the earth, as if in preparation of the coming months. She longed for the quietness.
Gazing into the woods from her window, she began to feel the pains again.
“Why did I have to die?”
The words seemed to form out of thin air.
On the wall facing the window hung a portrait of an old woman. She held the beauty of a lost time.
Like so many things, her memory no longer informed her of where, or who had given her this portrait. In stark contrast to the lifeless photos of ages past, the painting understood the passage of time. Often during her sleepless nights - those nights in which the moon was hidden - the pale girl would imagine that this painting was quietly judging the passing of life.
Beyond the trees, in perhaps another reality, the trees moaned. But humans cannot hear the language of the trees anymore…they cannot hear the ancient language that has been given.
For we can barely hear own souls whispering from within us.
As he walked down the pebbly road, the weight of the air beleaguered him with a sense of sadness.
He was reminded of days past, a time when he was not so alone; when he had the warming comfort of his family.
At one point in his life, he realized that it was this notion of family that gave him comfort. All the pains and burdens of his growing life would fade when he thought of his younger brother, and the bond that had been forged by their mutual experiences. His brother may not have even understood him as he would have liked to believe, but their collective experience- the fact that they walked similar paths, together - gave a comforting significance to their relationship. As children, they never remained in a neighborhood for more than a few years. The childhood friends he did have, despite knowing him fairly well, never truly grew up with him through his adolescence with continuity. Rather, they knew him as a fragment of time…soon to be broken and lost as he moved on. The memories linger, but the breathing, fleshy essence that were their basis, become separated by distance and time.
The road was lined sparsely with trees, and the ravages of the recent winter weather left the forest floor scattered with dead twigs, black against the tired gray and worn ground. He tried to imagine the life that spring would bring, but even such thoughts were clouded by the exhausted moaning winds that seeped from the deeper woods.
He sighed. He desired a companion.
He rummaged through his belongings in his singular shoulder pouch as he walked, perhaps to justify his existence, or perhaps just as an unconscious motion without any particular reasoning: a pad of paper scribbled with notes and sketches, his glasses, his identification cards, the remainder of his life savings, and a scattering of pencils that dirtied the insides of his bag and its contents as they shuffled around.
By editing down his possessions to the bare essentials, he believed he could become more sensitive to being. But this essential core still eluded him…to the point where he decided that the act of living did not have a core. If there was a true core, or meaning, it was nothing more than a breath of air…
that which now, brought tears to his eyes.
He continued to walk, casually dropping his identification cards, and then his money, along with his tears.
as he trudged forward, the existence of the woods, the sky, his body, mind, each began to change. the scene began to open up in a brightness, as if the lights of heaven had fallen upon him, washing all color and contrast away, fading into a blinding pureness of white. he realized his thoughts held no ground, and with this frightening discovery, he fell without a sound, his existence gently drifting into the light.
