The Lagoon's Oath

The mental stages of one's teenager life- only represented through the eyes of a younger and yet more mature child.

Dandelions whistled to the Sacred Wind of Amend. 'Bless the wounds, cure the burden,' they mellowed with passion. Their white tufts floated melodiously away as they reached their last wounded breath. The bliss they obtained in acknowledging their own death was perplexing. Aware of their predicament, the dandelions formed a barrier of trust, embroidering every weed together for the tormenting mistral to break the chain. As the gusted typhoon blew, however, the mortal dandelions let themselves be swept, leaving only the powerful will of their memory. Perennial, they would be incarnated into time. What paradoxical creatures, thought the bystanders, taking pride in their perish and striving for mirth in a pool of the mirthless. The muffled trudging of footsteps invaded the thoughts of those witnessing the collaborated suicide. A figure wistfully approached the scene of the crime. It held neither heart nor stone in hand. Just purity. It withheld uncorrupted youth in its juvenile eyes. Deep spirals of determination were kept captive in those two jewels. The tender infant tread the meadow with respect, stepping with delicate care making sure to consume the intricate ornaments of nature. Her hands swayed elegantly by her sides, maturing her posture. Child, her behaviour did not reflect. Rather the attributes of a lady. A lady who had seen the land of The Eulogised, drank The Holy Water and acquired The Non-profaned Soul. Yet, she seemed unchanged, not characterised by the treachery of her actions. She sang concordant tunes that no theist would utter. The lullabies of a liberated atheist. Free to lurk the shadows of a sin's justification, free to determine its own definition. Not the definition of another, not the definition of a perfect man whom is said to carry no vice. No man may carry no sin as that is a sin itself. Perfection is imperfect, thought the young girl deeply consumed in her lubricant thoughts. She was bewildered to unravel her own reasonings and proceeded to engaging her speculations into the graceful atmosphere she was creating. She vigilantly made her way to the edge of the lake. The intimidating giants of the forest gestured their autumn leaves in a tranquil motion above the blossoming lassie, eavesdropping her complex self-discussions. They understood none but were pleased to be listening to such beautiful soliloquies, woven together like fire and ice. She made it seem so simple. Once satisfied of where her will had brought her, she bend her petite frame into sitting on the trickled weeds, moist from past rainfall. Past rainfall to forgive not forget, she decided. If anguish is a form of fear than what is fear a form of? I wouldn't know if it were written on my tomb, thought the young girl. Why should shame tame me? I can plead louder than a prancing lion but I am wise enough not to plead when necessary. Emotions are like lakes, ponds of truth. The truth is a segment of lies, hence my feelings are lies. Shame is a form of fear, as is my sorrow. But fear itself? It still remains unresolved. She sat and thought about her feelings. She sat for a long time.

Tears of wisdom shed and lingering instants passed, the mysterious juvenile girl had waited. Waited for not another to appear to cause disturbance but for flames to flood her. She was confused. Apprehending the route of her failure. She could taste bittersweet victory taunting her, had she never wanted that feeling of completion? But all she felt was guilt. The aroma of ashes circulating through the thin air made its way towards her irrational figure. How could one view her as young? How could one see her as mature? To herself she was neither. It angered when her soul was judged from her physical or mental stereotype. I judge the people that I visualise as my condemners, she relished, they judge me and I judge them for doing so, I am no better than them. She mourned to the tranquil water, contemplating her mistakes and the mistakes of others. Self-pity wasn't uttered once, she was a fair evaluator and she proclaimed it without a hint of modesty. Honesty, nothing less. That's who she was; a praised candour. An armour of adjudication and yet she was keen to learn what others, fools to say the least, declared her as. A canary being tested by miners previous to an explosion was how the girl felt. Her abundant blond curls had turned dark and sinister although not many would notice it. People's perspectives are too crude, the lassie beckoned, if something is good than by meaning the other is bad, what logic is accumulated there? She fumbled a thin, oval-shaped rock in her hands and threw it in the lagoon. It ricocheted. Her eyebrows raised in awe as she comprehended. She didn't comprehend everything but one thing was enough for her. With that she spoke, with the hypnotising voice of a brave mortal.
"For I to feel, is an achievement itself. It is a skill. Why should I dwell like an immature pilgrim with what I have been given? All it will bring me is misery. The mourning of a sparrow should be equal to mine. Fragments of life, fragments of the light, for what? Sorrow intertwined into anguish, I think not."
With that a smile crept onto her young visage. She whispered to the mother lagoon with faith in her tone. Faith in others, faith in time, faith in forgiveness. Faith in herself.
"Promise me." she demanded the lagoon, "Promise me to stay as still as stagnant water, no spirits moving, nothing rippling, stay in time."
The lagoon heard her and promised. Promised to remain. And with that she strode away happy.

Author's Note

What do you think? Be honest. Did I lose your attention or were you enjoying it? Did I drown you in words or not out enough?

Reviews

[J.L Hunter]

Beautiful rendering of imagery here. There was no definite structure, which is sometimes a good thing as in poetic prose, which is where I would classify this. No doubt a spectacular read. Keep up more things like this. Thank you for writing.