Quiet things.

A lot of vague symbolism combined with literal/real life incorporations, apologies. however I'm rather fond of this. Let me know what you think, or if you have any questions.

Her mother said she was quiet. 

The wind was generous and threw the air about her as if it were rice at a wedding, showering the proud. She gave no thanks for the breath in her lungs, yet received the oxygen as an offering of praise and perhaps condolence. 

Sunlight stretched down into the clearing and the same air that stroked her face helped the light rush across the pond water. She was jealous, and jealousy often played cards with anger.

Yet it was defeat she wondered about now, as the wind moved the water and aroused the sparkling sun. Her sister told her she was very quiet. She felt mud drying on her ankles as an ant traveled up her thigh, causing her nerves to obnoxiously object her placidity. It was ridiculous, really. Yet she fixed her focus on her body and every voice that confirmed her physical presence.

She moved her head backwards so that her nose pointed towards the sky. The sun was there, in the bottom left of her view. Her eyes stayed open wide as blue light fell in and salt water trickled out. It reminded her of red. It reminded her of kaleidoscopes.

The discomfort was physical. She listened as it protested her decision to keep looking. Her mother told her family that she was quiet.

She tilted her head until she faced forward. Beyond her, beyond her toes that dug into the muddy bank, beyond the pond and scum and reeds, and beyond the sunlight, the woods stood in the centre of her view. They were quiet.

They were quiet, so they were at peace. 

The trees swayed slightly with the same wind that played with her hair. But the life dwelling among them, inside the woods, said nothing. She stared at the quiet and at the mask it painted. She stared at the lifeless peace and whistled. She pretended to see red. The water stretched out over its hole in the ground, barely moving now. The woods were still, the earth was still, but she knew that they were just like her. Putting on a show.

Earth climbed between her skin and finger nails as she clenched the ground beside her. Her family said she was very quiet. The bird that had landed on the bank in front of her started pecking at the mud, as if to end the show. Red kaleidoscopes. The woods waited quietly. She watched as the sun glistened off the bird’s thick black feathers. The water was jealous.

The trees began to sway again. She looked up to watch the sway and began to follow. With her eyes closed she still felt the sway.

It played with her hair, it moved her in the right direction. The bird moved also, drawing sets of lines in the dirt as she continued the sway. One line down, then near the bottom another line across to intersect. Again and again in the dirt; one line down, another near the bottom. Down, across. Down, across.

                                                                          

  Down, across. Down, across.

The woods swayed more violently. What really mattered in an existentialist world? With the trees her passion increased, and she swung counter clockwise through the air. She stared into the sky through her eyelids.

She could see red, and red when she opened her eyes. The bird worked fervently at the ground, and a wind brought out a howl from within the once peaceful wood. Spinning in the red and longing for the voices, her eyes could neither keep still. The bird screeched. 

She opened her mouth and tore off the mask.

Author's Note

A lot of vague symbolism combined with literal/real life incorporations, apologies. however I'm rather fond of this. Let me know what you think, or if you have any questions.