About once a year now I find myself there. It takes me a while to recognize it because I’ve tried to intentionally and unintentionally not remember the path here. To allow mother nature to take over and hide the way because I refuse to use it…. But for the far and few times I make it here now, I find myself skimming the edges of the charred forest where we once tried to grow things. It’s still black, never grew back. Scarred. When I walk the edge of this land, I can’t tell if I’m revisiting it to try and remember the touch of my hand holding your face or your smile that shot a thousand stars into my night sky, or if I’m coming there to remind myself that I never want to feel that way again. So much good on the surface so much pain on the other side. When I trace this line of land with my bare feet and navigate this flood of emotions and skewed memories, many I think I’ve forgotten, or hoped to, I swear I feel the heat under the ground. Little embers waiting to turn ablaze and burn again. But I like greenery, and I want to protect that that which remains here. So, I try to not acknowledge their existence too much as I pebble along waiting to be drawn away from this dark place again. Eventually, I seem to always choose that.
As the fog dissipated, the stone became clear and in writing it affirmed. Neither one wrong, one wanted solitude a little longer. It wasn’t for specific views, known feelings, or a different medium under their foot. It was the art of isolation they longed for, though there weren’t words for it, because it wasn’t a conscious thought then… it was the art of isolation and what it could unfold into if given the time.
The stone sits, the paths unwind into the wood… and maybe they go further still.
Hearts bleed on to paper to echo memories. Like holograms they dance on the pages of my mind. Yet it seems a purposeful wind wists them away as ghosts again. I hope you’re doing well.