A Glimpse of Life

When the girl emerged from the house, she did not remember who she was or what she had done. She did not recall where she came from or where she belonged. She did not hear as one should hear, or see as one should see. Her views and visions as she gazed across the world were different. And what she heard was a soft, barely audible music. It was very quiet, and she did not know what to think of it. Perhaps it was her imagination, maybe it wasn’t really there.

The girl looked down at herself. She was wearing a simple white dress. Its fashion was neither old nor modern; it was simple and plain. She stood for a moment, taking in her surroundings. The building from which she had come forth was small and grey. Not in colour, but in appearance. Drab and dirty, collapsing in some places; it was not noticeable, but somehow special. There were tall spruce trees, their bright green leaves reaching their faces to the sky. No birds chirped, no winds rustled branches. A queer silence surrounded this area, encompassing her, trapping her. It was unnerving; she had a sudden desire to cry out, to break the silent spell, but she did not. She began walking, mindlessly. Her feet knew their destination, but their being did not.

There were no thoughts going through her head, no confusion, no grief, but she was not thinking. She had no wants, no wonderments, perhaps she did not wish to remember. Or, perchance, she was not fully conscious of these things. She roamed in a trance, unfeeling. Where she went was not random, but carefully selected. Maybe she was trying to escape this hushed forest. It was a familiar place, her destination, and she knew this at least. But from where, she could only guess.

When she stopped, or rather the moment her feet ceased bringing her forward, colours danced before her eyes. It was beautiful and sudden, overwhelming and magnificent. Pulsing hues, flickering and leaping, threatening her consciousness. Darting from one place to another. Cheerful yellows faded into soft grays. Eccentric greens evolved into refreshing aquas. Bright, pure whites transformed into deep blacks. They were shapeless and free, in no enforced pattern. They danced for her, willingly showing off their beauty. With a mind of their own, they gave words of comfort; told stories of hope. This colourful display went on for only a few seconds, but the spell it cast on the girl lasted far longer.

Mesmerized, she stumbled onto the soft underbrush, the dew covered moss and grasses wetting her clothes. Happiness purged her small soul, filling it to the brim. Any mournful, sorrow filled thought vanished, replaced with a feeling of pure exuberance. This force of life was irresistible, it penetrated through her. Its enchantment captivated her aura, her very existence. It flowed through her veins and the feeling it gave was indescribable. It was happiness and sadness, anger and forgiveness. It was irrepressible. Defiant and forceful, willing and submissive. This overtook her, and she drifted into a peaceful, yet torcherous sleep.

This slumber brought back distant memories, yet they were not her own. They were painful and sweet. These dreams were of a people murderous and at the same time compassionate. Of war and peace. Hard slaps across a soft cheek, a gentle caress. It was a story of a world where darkness reigned and light still triumphed. There was happiness amidst the agony. She learned lessons from their mistakes, and gave them sympathy. She watched as they lived not in the moment, enjoying the peace they had right then, but instead worrying about the future. She saw their reasonings, understood their thinking. She knew why they did such terrible things, why they made sense to these people. The girl saw how they based their actions on what they thought would fix the predicament they lived in. They were ignorant, and childish, not thinking of the consequences. She knew they could not be fully healed, and that whatever was given to help would be wasted. They were not wise enough to live, but smart enough to survive. They repeated themselves. Over and over. She could see patterns in this dream, or perhaps it should be called a history. She saw shapes and numbers, a flower budding.

She awoke, seconds, minutes, hours, days, later. There was no telling of time, it looked as though nothing had changed. Everything was as still and calm as it was before, perhaps no time had passed. Perhaps the perception of time in this eerie place was simply an illusion, to confuse and to hasten. This strange dream had changed her. It left her with a feeling of grief for the sad lives wasted and forgotten. She wished to help them, but knew they were out of her grasp. She was like a child, her small fingers reaching for something they cannot have. But she also felt connected. To this forest, the earth, these people and the things surrounding her. She could see through different eyes. It was as though she had been blind. The girl noticed more details, distinctions that she had not seen occurring before. She saw the grasses growing, heard the trees whispering to one another. A new light shone on everything, as if it had been washed clean.

She could hear the song of life, sung by everything around her. It was new and beautiful, music that was flowing. Its words were different, they had no chorus or repetition, it was everchanging. She could feel all this around her, and could see the dance that went with the song. Her heart took flight, and she began to join in.She leaped and twirled, joy overflowing, and she could not contain herself. She laughed as she danced, running through the trees. This place did not seem as forbidden, the new music brightening this dreary world. Of course it was there before, but it takes sight to hear, and enlightenment to see. And she thought of this, as she danced through eternity.

Perspective is what the world is made of. It keeps feeble minds going, it gives them a reason to keep coming. Without it, we would be nothing. Meaningless people lacking a purpose. With this comes creativity, free will, and an aspiration to be heard. New thoughts and hopes and dreams. Perspectives are relative, they make up the fiction we live in, spinning tales to help us cope with the hardships. But in the end, fear is always victorious.


Photo credit: my own

Author’s Note: If this looks familiar, it might be because it was taken down for extra editing a few months ago

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Evander’s story.