I am nothing.
I don’t say that lightly—not in the way that shows I crave attention or pity. I don’t like pity, and I don’t do well with eyes judging my actions. I don’t say it in a way that means I do nothing, because while I am generally useless in the grand scheme of life, I do walk and I can talk and I tend to multitask at both fairly well. I am pointing out my never ending blankness. My little—no, even—impact on history itself. The fact that if I was to vanish, disappear like eyelash glue on your lid—transparent—no one would remember me. I wouldn’t be someone’s mother, sister, child, friend, lover. I wouldn’t be some noble diplomat. I would simply not be.
Like a snowflake melting on the warm flesh of a mammal.
And I contemplate this feeling a lot, truly I do. I, currently, relate everything to this. I internally curse myself for being so incredibly boring. I critique myself on lacking adventure and initiative. I blame myself for mediocrity and lack of depth. Even the leaves, slowing dying with the fall season, have more to show than I do. They have seen more, heard more, experienced total life. Enough so that God has decided it time to shed them from her dying roots and grow new life to take the meaning of life further.
Here I am, envious of crippling red and orange leaves.
The meadow is how it always is, eternal. It is blessed with emerald blades hardly showing thirst despite the recent lack of water. With fall always came a dry spell, and here it is feeling oddly suffocating. Leaves (I must comment on them despite my inner bickering) have grown to become multicoloured art inspirers. If I as human, I would understand why artists view them as motivation, why paint so elegantly rebirths their beauty upon a blank canvas. They are what I look forward to every year, even years like now when I am miserable with my lack of impact because their colours make me happy. The forest is a plethora of bright, vibrant pops of warm tones that accent my ebony coat. Before the chilling whiteness of snow exposes all angles of survival, and after the summer has spoiled me of all sun and hot weather.
The sun is beginning to rise. I am famous for making it to the meadow at the crack of dawn. I emerge from the hot savannah of my kingdom and feel the temperature alter and disintegrate to more a more bearable climate. It is a time where frost just begins to decorate the scene like icing sugar on black forest cake. The entire season, the time of day (though I am forever plateau…ing?) warming me like hot chocolate for a child would on a snow day.
I stop where I always do, at the tree line. Hazel eyes, watching few… hardly any…equines meander with the sunrise. It’s peaceful. The soft coo of distant birds, the sound of dead tree limbs cracking and popping—serene. And I will stand here—an awkward school girl inhaling my guilty addiction of familiarity—awaiting company that may not want to meet a blank slate.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black