Marchland

Somewhere in the universe, in a place unlike ours, there breathes another me. I can almost hear her panting as she runs in the middle of the woods—would the middle of the woods hold an identical meaning in a parallel reality?—barefoot, chips of wood stuck on the tips of her toenails, sole stomping and thumping against the muddy soil. Oh, it was dirty, alright. She has been running at full speed for several years now, mindlessly hurdling forward the deathly path but knowing nothing’s out to kill her, and she’s certainly not dying any time soon. Breathless, she looks up at the smiling moon and thinks It’s been an awfully long three years of dusk, if it isn’t too much to ask I’d like to see daylight at the end of this trail—what trail? From a distance, the fox winces at her. She runs faster and faster and faster and faster and faster. Chasing the fox might be her way out. Go on. 

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Chances exist and we might never even recognize some of them. They take form in the clouds and in the wireless internet connection we consume daily. But ironically, internet-based reality ruins every opportunity you might have. Perhaps, it’s best you log off Twitter now.

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Your vocabulary only reveals your soul. Let it.

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Cheetahs run fast and talk even faster. Get away from their open mouths and make sure you sprint the opposite way when you hear them start to growl. It’s never a safe sign. Always maintain a distance from their teeth and keep your hands tucked behind your back. Beware, they’ll devour your wrists and eat away at your flesh until your body’s down to your bones. Hold on. They’ll gobble those up, too. Cheetahs love a clean slate.

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I’ve always adored the stillness of a room. I wouldn’t call it silence—there is no such thing as silence when a beating heart exists in it. But rather, an empty room with an exhausted heart is a space of stillness, of matter suspended. A heart when worn out doesn’t take up much space, so I’d say the room would still be vacant—vacant yet serene—and the lightness of the air bearing the promise of comfort while the heart thumps and beats and throttles—waiting, waiting; still waiting to be filled with the same kind of stillness. That certain stillness that fills the room. 

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Sometimes I find myself looking at a certain object, however, I don’t think I’m ever contemplating anything concrete at all, but rather merely burning a hole fixating my sight on these objects. The spine of a book, the wood on my bookshelf that is painted white, the surface of my desk, the pitch-black sky; with my mind void of thoughts. Most of the time, I’m left pondering about nothing, yet my eyes would be focused on something, but free from the worry of thinking. In those moments I feel entirely placid.

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A crackling fireplace. Blank typewriting papers scattered all around. A warm space, nevertheless. I wonder who stayed here before us? Anyway, we have come a long way from the mouth of the woods to this cabin and maybe we could get some rest even just for a little bit. Do you hear the faint whistling of kettle? That’s ours. Kindly put it out, I’ve prepared some hot water because I am craving cocoa, I hope that you want some, too. It’s quite cold in here so we better suit up. Perhaps I can make us a cup or two before we head on out and continue walking further until we are out of the woods. One cup of cocoa, right up. Here, come get yours. Hold on, the fire needs to be fed. Please, wait here while I gather the scattered papers. Let me rile up the fireplace.

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I indulge in my evening walks. Let me paint you the picture: room 112, left wing, Thornton Hall, the digital clock reads 5:30 p.m., professor wraps up the lecture on Shakespeare’s Sonnets (Sonnet 18 in particular, Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?—oh, the absurdity of the Bard), I grab my bag and head out. The air is cool, but not the kind that gives you shivers, so, on I walk. I do this almost everyday. In the university oval are two lanes: the traffic lane and the bicycle lane, on the side of each, a sidewalk. Today, I take the sidewalk.

The air is still, and so am I. Now, it is almost 6 p.m., 10 minutes before, to be exact, and dinner is in about an hour. The most logical thing for me to do right now would be to get on a cab to the train station—that is, if I want to catch the 7:15 trip—and just head on back home. However, the night is too quiet and the stillness in the air feels like a solid barrier and maybe I should indeed keep walking. And I will.

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Do you hear her? That blonde girl over there? With the blue eyes and the red lip classic thing that you like? She’s singing in a swift, tailored voice. I think she’s asking if we’re out of the woods yet are we out of the woods yet are we out of the woods yet are we out of the woods are we in the clear yet are we in the clear yet are we in the clear yet in the clear yet?

Good.