The silhouette of reality

I have been here most of my life. Pushed so far out of the woods and into the subliminal, that I no longer know where my body anchors. Father said I walked in my Mother’s distance; cast out pebbles over the river song too long that I left my body on the banks, in the promise of my mind chasing the pebbles thrown. Mother never really knew me, no more than she knew herself. It was only us three until I really did leave when I was 16. Three people and we knew nothing of each other, no matter how many dinners were forced from silence.
I left to grow but grew quieter by what I saw. I grew smaller the louder the noise I heard. Like a soft worm, the world took from me, rung by rung, the more blindly I wriggled. The more of us are there are, the less of ourselves we discover and I lost myself to the surface behind the matter of things. Nuances of figure and folly pulled at the threads of my reality and stalked closer to their manifestation of me. The depth welling inside of me, continually emptied by the cold pail of people…asleep behind their sight.
That is why I lay here, with the blur of land soaking unto my pale skin, faces looming behind the protection of this tree. A discordant hum proliferates in the air, like a primordial spell out to take over all it can. The sound takes shape, like the dark cloud before the rumble of a perpetual storm. I see the cloud divide and divide, each time splitting faster, until the noise has sought me from behind the tree. I become the smallest I have ever been, tightening into my skin like when I used to hide in my clothes, but these were not my clothes, this was my body shrinking into something so fragile it could fall away unnoticed. I need to close these eyes.
When I do, I feel myself lend to an undying root wrapping around me like the clothes of my childhood. It seems to know where I have always remained bare and tries to bind itself to the emptiness in me. It’s comforting, but in a way that I seem to have forgotten, like a rare embrace from my father. It doesn’t take long for me to feel like I did when my father held me, to feel as helpless as him needing support more than I did. That same listless pulse of defeat seeps into me.
This is what they have done to us, I think to the tree. The solemn root grows darker in seeing its branches touch the light, until it becomes the shadow in the balance of something greater.
The muse of the water sings to me distantly. I follow the sound, dissolve in it and find myself in moving secrets coveted by the surface. Its fluidity loosens my skin and keeps my eyes following it past my body. I become acutely aware of my fixation on this river, how my body will never experience the freedom of my mind. It makes me feel old even though the river sings young.
The water that passes along my anchored body is born of the same body as the water that flows at the spring and wintering of this river, yet it exists at entirely the same moment. I begin to feel the water as one continuous stream to keep me from the confine of time. It strokes rhythms over my skin and trails the redress of my loosened hair behind it. I feel like I’ve recognised the pink, freckled arm that once threw a pebble and hoped that she might fly away with it, by looking at my freckles now merging into one, like droplets of my paint have realised their separation, as I finally leave my body.
My eyes float long into the raise of the ripples and the shadows wavering behind them until I am drawn into the quiet surge beneath them. My body intricately extends outwards in ephemeral limbs that embrace the consciousness of the water. Around me the roots begin to stretch as effortlessly as my body falls into the lapse the water has gifted me.
Time unhinges by the old river to show me my mind ungoverned by my body. No longer am I the solitary raindrop in the weighted balance of fickle winds, trapped in the moment before I burst, but the potential of one raindrop, gracefully falling to a release so profound that it breaks its form to become alive.
Not many people understand escape. How easy it is to keep on running and searching through life, believing in growth that may be seen but denying ourselves that which is born to us alone inside. Not many people can see that my isolation is not a web to keep me from reality, but a cocoon in which to prepare my mind to leave the bark of my brain and engage in the wild wanderings of nature. A place I know to be true.

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