Everything seems to be surreal when I look upon it alone. There are too many things I don’t understand – not only about the natural world but about myself. Why is it that these things are surreal to me?
I took a simple ride to the lake, I sat on an age old bench, which without a doubt held memories of happiness and sorrow – but my experience was of neither. It is not to extreme to say that I felt vacant, as if I had left myself to explore the world – time seemed of little concern.
She did not have to return home, she could have sailed the winds into core-deep crevices hidden beyond the places I have traveled. She could have been free, free in all of its glory. She could have been separate, experienced all the wonders of the world and never suffer the physical, emotional or mental consequences. She would be no wiser than her years reveal. She would not question the world, rather observe it and reconcile with its imperfections. She would feel every emotion, to their most severe extremes – but she would learn to forgive. She would…
…if only she didn’t return home to the walls which encase her within the world’s judgments and those self inflicted. If only she didn’t return to be enclosed, captured within the walls which shape and shift to suit a given scenario – but never remain true to their architectural design … if one design could ever exist.
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