She would feel warmth amidst the natural scenery. Amongst the trees, and the rivers, the brooks, and the streams. Next to the sole, fleshy, green, shrub. Her thoughts fluidly stormed out. Haphazardly, desperately in pursuance of coming in contact with ink to paper or some sort of palpable passage out. Thundering, as energy fizzles and crackles, as it does in a storm of words and sounds unlike no other soul has ever heard or read or seen. Unlike no other place. Thoughts to words and ink on paper. Only as an outlet to her overzealous mind. If not drafted nor penned it would feel As if a sudden lack of air was prompted. Whenever asked she’d flippantly say ‘Oh, my dream is to live in a big city. Out for a walk amid the faceless crowd. I feel comfortable there.’ More often than not, in spite of her gracefully delivered replies, she felt foreign, strange, carefully excluded between the sea of unseen faces. She conceded that admission if only to herself. What she dared not entertain was the idea of why her most respected inspiration was the one she struggled against. Only during those brief moments of reprieve, an escape, a release. Where the stream of museful ponderings and reflections came forth for her salvation. During one of these sessions it happened. She carelessly stumbled upon the root of her illogical aversion to spending her days in both solitude, and companionship with nature. She knew what fed her soul, her muse, her. She raged against it. It desperately and in many ways frightfully begged its release. It consumed her. Incessantly. What would become of her she often wondered, as was typical and familiar to her. If she fed it in a perpetual and consistent manner. Would she be lost in a mindful state? Scared of that source, that seed inside that fed on her sense of contentment. While in lucidly lush and green forests. It would take dominion, she knew. She would lose herself, or else everything would be left scarce, blank, devastated. As if the storm and torrent of thoughts to ink to paper had ruined her very soul. Her salvation would be the death of her. She knew. She would either become everything to her utmost potential. Or left empty of all emotion and vision. A spark of revelation it suddenly ignited. As she recorded it in those flimsy pages. That moment swiftly released upon paper. Sealed with greedy ink. She lost her epiphany. All she knew was she would rather live through a faceless crowd. In a harsher ambience of solitude and companionship. One that would not, could not save her. All for the fear of losing herself to her muse. -Danni Morrison
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