My Woods, My World

I came out of those woods with thick, smudged eyeliner and glittery tears staining my cheeks. I felt the tightness of my face intensely, as if my skin had tightened around my bones. I walked with what felt like a ball and chain around each ankle, only thinking of one thing: home. I should be walking towards my parents' house, with walls, a roof, a door to slam, and a bed to hide in. But it's the feeling of home I need most. A craving I cannot satisfy by going to any certain location. So I walked aimlessly for hours.

As I emerged into the streets of town, everyone around was busy with their lives. Lives that were actually headed in a certain direction. I simply walked, utterly lost in my own thoughts and memories. In my woods, there is one glorious tree; it twists out of the ground, and its trunk spirals up to the sky. Each branch of the tree follows in nature, waving out in the most peculiar of ways. It reminds me of the angry tree from The Wizard of Oz that threw apples at Dorothy; my tree, however, only threw me painful memories that I clung to no matter the pain. My mind often brings me back to this tree, sitting under it, once not alone as I do now. I suppose those people didn't find as much comfort in the tree as I did; I suppose they also didn't find as much comfort in me as I did them.

I don’t know if I feel lonely; I fear I've forgotten the difference between emotions. Loneliness, jealousy, anger, sadness, each one just a watercolour mess of emotions. Spilt bleeding into the page. While my feet move one in front of the other, I laugh to myself at how funny it is, that is the only feeling I am certain of, is feeling stuck. Like wearing the heaviest of gumboots while trudging through the wettest knee-deep mud, until eventually your boots begin to pool and your socks sludge when you squirm your toes. A disgustingly uncomfortable feeling. I feel so stuck yet, I'm so free. My parents never bother to wonder where I am; I have no school or extracurricular activities to attend, and definitely no job. I simply drift through the streets as I once did, nicely clothed, with new shoes, and well-kept hair. Not to sound vain, but I remember when the looks I got were admiring, not glaring or surveilling. Making sure I don't snatch a good civilian's bike, scooter, or work boots left at a shop door. Always watched, hardly ever approached.

I bet one of my old friends from the woods is in that building across from me, studying, working hard, and feeling good about themselves. I bet their parents brag about them to anyone and everyone. The act of saying their name, and their child's accomplishments rolling off their tongue as if they had achieved them themselves. Do I hate this? Or do I only hate it because I'm full of jealousy that I can no longer recognise? They probably sleep nice and warm, a luxury I could've had. A privilege I, for some unknown reason, denied. Most likely out of pure stubbornness. I no longer remember that time very well; my own past self has become a mystery to me. A stranger I can no longer identify with. You hear of terrible people who abuse their children, spouse, sibling, or friend, and how evil and selfish they are. Is it awful to see myself as more so? More evil. More selfish. My mother always told me that I was vain in the worst kind of ways. Not only was I the best, but I was also the worst. I thought myself the greatest in every way; whether it be the greatest hero or villain, it did not matter.

Last time I saw my mother, I tried to open up about the thoughts that plague my mind. "I fear they all talk about me, or see me walking around and see how low I've fallen and how high they've picked themselves up." I wanted to tell her about the woods, where I go each night, but she left no room for elaboration.

"Well, of course they do. I'm sure you would too. I remember when you were on your high horse, thinking you're better than everyone else." My mother used an oddly sympathetic tone to deliver this statement to me. I can't remember what happened after that, but I stormed out, only looking back once to catch a glimpse of her rolling her eyes. I love you too. Those three words, for some reason, crossed my mind, and it didn’t even feel sarcastic. It simply felt final.

I end up in a dimly lit public bathroom with pink mold streaking the toilet bowl. I use my ten minutes wisely, I kind of wash my face, avoiding my eye area to preserve the eyeliner. I pump the cheap bathroom soap onto a damp paper towel and wash my armpits, hoping to get rid of the smell sticking to me. Maybe if I were to see people I know, I'd buy a stick of deodorant, but it seems pointless if the only person dealing with the smell is me. I deal with everything else I throw at myself, so what's a little smell?

I walk aimlessly past various faces who have lived many lives, with morals and opinions I don't agree with and vice versa. I feel naked, frozen each time I see eyes glance over me, a perspective of me that I have no control over. I tend to make a quick face to avert eyes, which worked as usual, an ugly, off-putting face, my protective shield. Perhaps that is why I always go back to the woods; those beady eyes of birds and bugs watching me don't bother me nearly as much. They only stare out of fear or innocent curiosity. No awareness of being poor, unclean, or strange. They only want to know if you're kind.

Out of the woods, the world feels brighter in the worst kind of way. My woods were made vibrant, at first by friends, the sound of laughter, and the making of memories. Now the remaining memories dance around, each replaying in my mind, keeping me warm and my heart afloat. My memories help make me my own crackling fire. Warmth trickles through my bones as if a fire within was able to ignite from the rapid beating of my heart. The memories may pull at the strings of my heart and turn my stomach inside out, but I can never stop myself from driving in. As pain and love consume me, the world floats away, and everyone else in it too.

I sink down into these memories with no struggle, allowing them to take me and swallow me whole. I become drunk with so many thoughts that it becomes clear there is only one place to go. Back to the woods. Like a magnetic pull, no thoughts needed, my feet set off in the correct direction. While I think to myself undirected, my feet make calculated decisions to arrive at their desired place sooner. I wouldn't have noticed going down the old alleyway to cut through the back of town if it weren't for someone placing the saxophone somewhere around. A heavenly tune confirming I was headed in the right direction. That the house was not the home to go to, but the place of my memories.