A Meadow

If only there were only a way to put into words melancholy as beautiful as the rain.

There has come this breaking point, like the childish inspiration, imagination, innocence, ran off across the meadow chasing some stupid, fleeting thing. And it's not turning back. It's a morbid picture. We all stand silent at one side of the plain, against the fence, and watch our children run towards the other, like they don't even miss their homes. Like they were always souls without bodies. Like they were always alone.

They are transparent. As their weak legs flail across the grass we can see the blades trampled beneath their feet, through their feet. I can stand and watch the turmoil becoming more and more real through the invisible frame that was once the structure that held me together, and I can see the potholes…

I can see the traps…

They are blind to it all. And still we run.

We're not so different, us and them. Their naked feet grow calloused and hard as they tread that filthy surface. The blades of grass cut through their premature limbs until their skin solidifies. The wind and rain blows hard in their faces until the ghosts become substance, and the substance becomes men.

By the time they reach the other side of the field they've become mirrored imaged of us. But harder. Weathered. If I stood as myself face to face with what I've become, I wouldn't stand a chance.

I was a child. The first thing I wanted to do was grow up and out. Well, look at yourself now, boy. There's not even meaning left in these words, just a feeble attempt to remember what my shadow looked like before I ran across the meadow. And all this paints such a beautiful portrait in my mind, but the act of expression…good God there's not much of a landscape to paint in this black and white font at all.

And if asked what it means to express oneself, I'll say, I've not the slightest clue. I've wandered so far from the stereotypical rhythmic potential that I thought I knew. If I could stand at this fence forever and ponder the meaning of the wind that blew you out of reach, beyond my view, would you ever return to welcome me within your arms the same way they welcomed you.

I'd like my ghost to come home. I'd like to be on the other end of the field watching myself run towards me, and I'd like to greet the image with open arms, a child to his other.

Because somewhere in this aging process we notice we lose ourselves, and a child should never be left out in the cold alone. Unless we become as children… I'm determined to believe that these boys and girls are more than memories…

I took one step and it was one step too many.