Stone
Author's Note: This is a stream of consciousness I wrote on a day where I was simply surprised by how quickly my emotions and mood can change. This piece captures how confused, and lost I felt. Like always, I was focused on painting a clear image as I wrote, and capturing numerous human senses to place myself more in the scene.
The cold, wet, grey stone felt smooth in my hand. It appeared to be unharmed on the outside -- no dents or discoloration. It looked, almost, too perfect. Frustrated, I threw it back into the pond, and there was a splat noise rather than the usual skipping of stones sound. The pond was so shallow, there was no where the stone could have gone but down, swallowed by the mud below. I felt like that stone. Consumed by the world around me, buried in some deep dark place and it was all so unexpected. No matter what I thought would happen, my stones would not skip along the clear surface of the water; I was always lost below the surface, and confused. Nothing made sense. I didn't always know where I really was. Everything, my life, was simply a hazy dream, or rather, a nightmare.
The musty, damp air consumed me and my thoughts, the wind whipping at my red cheeks. My hands felt old, and destroyed -- covered with the awful mud and dripping with the murky water. My face felt soaked, but with what? I could no longer tell if it was the drizzling rain from above, or my own tears. It was all simply too much. I turned, and made my way into the woods. It was just another place foreign to me, yet I had nothing to lose; anything was better than this.
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