They Say Great Writing Begins With Vulnerability
So I Will Write About a Memory That Tugs at My Soul Every Day
I’m looking at a photo of a thick pinewood forest and I instantly know it’s frontier. I can smell the unsoiled air and taste snow melting on my tongue. My body starts to ache because my legs pilot me through thick nested crystals in below frigid temperatures.
My nose is runny and bare.
Each time my boots make contact they carve fingerprints into the landscape — each depression uttering a subtle, but unforgettable crunch.
Suddenly, I realize, I’m walking in a forest frozen in time.
My eyes feel dry — so my lids are compressed. An arctic gust grips my face and I sink my head to dodge it’s fury. All the while, my stiff hands pull my securely bundled scarf from my jacket to shove my face in it. Now, my lungs are protected from the air’s icy invaders.
As I walk blind I focus my attention on my feet and let them guide me. My scarf, woven around my neck and face — collects each warm breath. But overtime the air thickens in my airways, so I peek out one, fateful nostril to sniff the fresh air. And as expected, it receives only crisp aromas.
I slowly unhinge my eyelids, unwrap my scarf and catch a glimpse of my red, stale fingers. They’re numb, so I quickly cradle them together in my scarf. Where are my gloves?
I’m distracted by the fog rolling about with my breath, but I quickly lose sight again because I approach an intimate landscape.
As I pass its gates I hear the wings of small vertebrae crack the sound barrier and ride the forces of Beaufort’s scale — while others croon melodious banter and sing soft sonnets. They are the welcoming orchestra and the wind is their maestro.
But beyond the symphony — beyond the midst of fallen and scattered tree limbs, a round-table abbey exists. It’s borders protected by momentous knights with roots firmly frozen and settled. Roots that support their sophisticated, erect structures while they hold giant swords that look like acute spears of frozen rain.
But the trees don’t enter here. It is an undisturbed quietude. It is the eye where the sun peers through each day — acting as a lighthouse in the wilderness. And its plain, frosted desert illuminates the sun’s gaze while fluffy, white dollops stylishly decorate old logs and sleeping bushes.
Life is a faded whisper here, but I know it only retreats, because I can still feel the earth breathing.
And even if I tightly grasp this moment — my small slice of stillness — I know it’s only a memory and yet my senses are trapped. It’s so quiet.
Then an engine roars outside my window, and I remember I’m in the city.
The end.
