Remembering how to write

She thought to herself how she used to write in the third person as a dog or a cat. What would I write about now if I wrote a short story, what could possibly pop into my head now that can be as simple and eloquent as a cat who doesnt like baths? As we grow older and have more life experiences, she thought, our stories tend to overcomplicate themselves. Just like Matisse went back to his childhood drawings of simplicity, so do I want to write in a lyrical flow about lifes simple passing moments.

This morning when she awoke, she saw the blinding bright light again. It has been happening most of this week, where she wakes up and feels like she could be on a stranded beach somewhere, the bright sun reflecting off the sand. But no, she wasnt on a beach, she was in her room. The room that was threatening to engulf her, to trap her in its low ceilings and never let her explore outward.

When she goes down to the kitchen for that cup of tea, each step seems to bring her back to when she lived in another house with three floors and a staircase. Somedays it doesnt seem like so long ago that she lived in that house with her parents; in that neighbourhood above the skyline.

As she sips her tea she wonders what she would do today.

She walks down the path along the river where no one would find her. The sound of the river fills her ears as if a wave flooded her being. Her senses awaken and her eyes open to the fall colors in the trees and on the ground. The tall grasses shly wave goodmorning, another butterfly dances across her face.

I could be here all day, she thought. I could be here all day, until I truly see into the soul of every tree, of every blade of grass, of every animal that I hear. She touches the branches, she loves the feel of a rough piece of bark in her hands. She winds her way through the farm and up into the orchard. It always amazed her how every fruit grew from a small bead to become a pound of food. She didnt learn that until she moved away from the city.

The morning sun was getting lower and soon it became afternoon. There seemed to be tasks and chores ahead, so she started back toward the house. She never liked to take the same path back, and so she went up and over a little hill before descending back to town.

As soon as her house was in sight, she felt a sense of hesitation. Those long walks that so rejuvenate her also give rise to ever pending thoughts. That chair on the porch always pulled at her, but being back at the house meant an end to this particular walk; an end to this particular pending thought. It also meant an end to this particular little glimpse at her own soul.