I sit there. In the middle of a forrest In the middle of no where basically. Physically alone like always, But not mentally alone. My thoughts keep me company. I do not feel alone, But I know I am. I feel eyes watching me. But I must be alone I assure myself. I slowly turn my head around to find empty space. All the is around me is empty space. To my left, something snaps. I spin around abruptly. Again, Nothing is there. I am always paranoid like this. I just cannot help it at all. I stopped taking my medications a long while ago. My parents do not know this. Nor will they ever find out. Something snaps again. I know now I am not alone. I push myself up off the ground and brush the leaves off my blue jeans. I cautiously walk over towards the space where the noise was last heard. I wait. Silent. But still wait.
You are built like a cake, frosted with muted, orange stucco, pocked and rough under the fingertips, square and flat-roofed. The grass at your feet is sparse, a concerning shade of green, thirsty for water that the California sky is reluctant to provide. A white, wrought-iron gate precedes you, the paint peeling off the curling, metal grapevines speaking of a home well-loved rather than untended to. Unlatched and given a gentle push it is happy to give way to a guest with good intentions, beckoning them past the SOLD sign-- soon to be uprooted-- up the graveled drive and to your front door, red as the flower of a scarlet hedgehog cactus-- Echinocereus coccineus. Turn the knob, gold and polished from every palm that has cradled it. Open the door, give the eyes time to adjust to the light. Give them time to bring the room into focus-- the plump, apricot-hued couch
You look into a frozen window. It’s a 6-pane window, coated in chipped, white trim. The panes of glass are frozen in a lattice of ice crystals; the work of the impending winter, you know. It was Winter's breath that froze the village while you were sleeping, and even the morning sun has not broken the spell yet.
Through the melting frost on the window pane, you see a boy. A freckled face, framed by unruly hair. As your breath melts more of the frost, you see one hand is tangled in the mess of hair, pushing it away from his face.
He is sitting at a desk. One of those old, folding, wooden ones. A journal sits under the intensity of his gaze. He does not wear a peaceful expression, one to match the new morning, and you see the glow of rest has not graced his face in a long time.
There I was, third and goal, four yards away from the touchdown. We are one touchdown away from winning, but were on defense. The other team snaps the ball and hands it to their running back. He tries to jump over the defensive line but I come and knock the ball out of his hands. The ball goes into my hands and I get up and run.
I get passed all of the players on the other team. All of the coaches and players on the sideline are freaking out. I get the touchdown to tie the game. I watch my kicker get out on the field.
He snaps the ball and kicks it. It curves and hits the post and goes in. Our team wints the game. Everyone runs on the field to celebrate. I hold the trophy and I wake up in my bed, holding my pillow. I get out of bed and mumble to myself, "If only that was real."
As I hiked over the hill, I could see the sadness that fills. The Old Dairy Barn. As we walk across, the building that falls. The Old Dairy Barn. As we see nails through wood, that aren't looking so good. The Old Dairy Barn. As the lumber wood shrinks, and happiness sinks. The Old Dairy Barn. Fire starting small, to nothing at all. The Old Dairy Barn. The grass is burnt too, and the smoke flew. The Old Dairy Barn. As I leave this site, I don't feel so bright. The Old Dairy Barn.
Fire is gorgeous and majestic. It helps us keep warm and helps us live. But like most things, it has a dark side. It burns up people's hopes and dreams. Fires are wonderful and also a destroyer. It puts people in tears. Fire is a wonder of the world. You never know what it will do next.
New York City is underwater. There is no shore anymore, there are no banks on the Hudson; there is only a vast sea. The pinnacle of the Empire State Building breaks the surface, and if you descended from it you would find yourself plunging down, down, down, falling in slow motion past sky scrapers and cold windowpanes, flooded offices and high-rise condominiums, window boxes and fire escapes. Say good morning to the city. Say good morning to the sun glittering and glancing off the water. Dive down deep and have your morning walk on the streets of Brooklynn, floating listlessly by brownstones and black iron fences, treetops swaying like seagrass, bottom-dwelling fish nibbling on algae-encrusted concrete. The buzzing energy of the Big Apple has been replaced by the drone of the ocean, the muffled song of the current singing low in your ears.