I am that girl, with my blanket and books, walking outside to my secret spot where I can sit and be me.
Where I can talk aloud to the trees around me, to my imaginary friends, and to myself. Or just listen…
Here I can be smart and read books that no one cares about anymore, read poetry, let words manipulate my conception of the world and I can write and write until my thoughts tumble out on the pages and I am finally not carrying them anymore. The words get heavy when I have a muse but no outlet.
I can sing and hear the beauty in my voice and laugh at how silly it is to be so dramatic. To feel every lyric vibrate in the wind. No one else is listening but I recite them passionately anyway.
I can think about that boy. Yes. I can daydream about him. This is the only place I can say his name out loud, and I do. Over and over again like I’m whispering his name in his ear. I allow the straps to fall off my shoulders and pretend the sun and the breeze are kissing my skin with his lips.
I cry here sometimes. But no one sees me so the tears are real and not in regurgitated response to some mean comment or thoughtless act by those who are supposed to love me. I can hide from them here because they don’t even know that this place exists.
I lie here and relive the best moments and imagine better ones and then drift off to dream in unrealistic hues of music that has yet to be composed.
And when I wake, I know it is getting late and I must go. The world outside of this one demands that I return. So I gather my blanket and books and I brace myself once more. I face the sun and as I walk away, I have to look back. With a tear I realize the beauty of leaving nothing but footprints in a sacred spot.
I need my space here. I need a place to hide from the world where it’s okay to be so damn complex and enjoy the simplicity of letting myself just be complicated me.
Author: Andrea Byford
Editor: Sarah Kolkka
Image: Stephanie Krist/Unsplash
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