A Better Place to Be [Cici]
Sept 22, 2013 23:38:54 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Sept 22, 2013 23:38:54 GMT -5
[/color][/blockquote][/size][/justify]RUM TUM TUGGER----
'Cause I want to live like animals
Careless and free like animals
I want to live
I want to run through the jungle
The wind in my hair and the sand at my feet
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On long walks through the forest, I used to like to imagine up stories of the past. I would think about the great big cities my mother talked about existing, shining with their metallic hues, and how the whole world hummed like a machine. They had happy little lives with homes and families, and weren’t so afraid of being locked up forever. It was hard to picture a place where people thought about more than just getting by, or not having to pluck corn or sew clothes for everyone else. I liked to imagine myself in the same world, where I had a house with my mom and dad and brothers. I had my own bedroom with curtains—soft, flowing white curtains. We would all sit around a table and eat dinner that my mother cooked. We wouldn’t shiver at night because we had blankets, and we weren’t skipping meals to make all we had last longer.
The dream never lasts too long. I think it’s because I think of all the marvels we’ve seen out in the great wide open. If I were locked up all the time in one place, how would I see the birds that flap their wings in the sky? How could I take a bath in the cool stream or chew at the fresh growing blackberries in the forest? I try to remind myself that the best part of dreams is not dissecting them. I know that the minute you start to peel back and stare at what’s real, the dream isn’t as pretty anymore. Once you do that, you start to see all the little cracks that have been smoothed over, and all the heaps of paint that have been added so you don’t notice what it’s really supposed to look like. If I were one of those people in the past, I’d never see the sun rise the way it does after sleeping under a pile of leaves in the middle of nowhere. I can’t tell if I’m just stubborn or if my brain’s just been wired a different way, but I can’t ever see me tied down to a place where the scenery doesn’t change.
I wonder about Freya. In the months that we’ve been together, there’s been nothing better than being able to talk to her about every last inch around us. While I mostly sit back and let her do the talking, I can’t help but smile as she babbles on about the latest bird call or how the stars stretch across the sky at night. The wonder on her face sends a shiver down my spine. At night, when the fire burns down to embers, I’ll watch how the red and orange dances off her face. The wind has a nice way of plucking at the strands of hair and scattering them across her face as she sleeps. A part of me feels guilty that I’ve been so lucky. Plenty wander this world without having someone to share it with, and here I feel like I rolled the dice in the luckiest way. I was long past lonely. Now I wonder if I’ll ever be able to go back to wandering on my own again.
Today we’re pressing on along the mountains through a stretch of forest that I’d traveled with my mother a few years back. I keep trying to track the way the moss is growing on the trees, but I keep feeling as though we’re doubling back in circles. Nothing looks familiar, and by midday I swear I’ve seen the same set of bushes four times. I pull my backpack closer to my chest and shake my head. Trying to concentrate lately has been as easy as catching a spider web in the wind. I suppose it might be from the changing of the seasons. The newfound cold has me draped in layers underneath my jacket, and at night huddled closer to the fire. I like pressing my top lip against my nose to feel just how cold it’s become. It does make me wary of the winter, though. Each passing day reminds me that Freya will need a better coat and boots. And will she be ready for the snow, when we have to huddle close and work harder to find shelter that won’t leave us frostbitten.
“I bet we see snow if we head any further north,” I say off-handedly. I stop to measure another tree branch. Its shadow draws long from the sun, and I imagine the best course of action may be to sit in place until getting a clearer head. I scrunch up my nose and find this unacceptable. All we needed to do was keep pressing forward, and everything was going to work itself out. “Have you ever seen snow?” I still remind myself that for all the wonders Freya has seen the most natural ones seem outside her grasp. It could well be a stupid question. The capitol can do everything short of reanimating the dead. I scratch behind my ear. A selfish part of me wants to show it to Freya, and to have this memory be just ours. I shake off the thought and turn my attention back to the broken twig. “It’s just about the best part of trekking over these mountains.” I look at Freya. Well, the second best.