Trees have leaves; obviously. Though have you ever noticed that sometimes it’s just as hard, if not harder to pull a dead leaf off than a fresh one?
This is sort of how life works; newer things in your life are easier to separate yourself from, whereas something that’s been in your life for awhile is harder to detach from. I thought to myself that all these leaves, are attached to trees that give the leaves life; even still, leaves die. It reminded me, that not all things that appear to benefit you, truly do or will in the long haul. As far as people go, we sometimes cling to what we want or what we need; in the most harsh of cases we lose our morals, our minds, our hearts, or our life. Sometimes it’s not even our choice to be a leaf on a certain tree.
There is an upside though.. While leaves die, and crunch under your feet during the Fall, don’t they also come back in the Spring? You may lose your color and be a detached leaf on the ground, but there’s a new bloom just around the corner. Maybe you’re meant to be knocked down to be picked up.
Truth be told, you can crumble like a leaf many times attached to your tree of life. You just have to decide whether or not to bloom again.
She listened to storms, for it was natures way of conveying what was on her mind.
It is an odd feeling, to be the one who remembers the most.
I remember people I only spent a day with; they cling to my brain with a tight grip, refusing to let go. It’s a mortifying thing to remember all, yet also a gift when you use it correctly. Memory serves us in a way, that we choose the moments we wish to dwell on. I always find myself riddled with remembering people. I’ll never forget people I spent a few measly hours with. I don’t forget the tone someone used to talk to another, and it will haunt me till morning. I dwell on a memory of a person, because I feel some people should be remembered. Maybe I don’t know them, and perhaps I will never see them again; but I’d rather have a great moment captured in time with an acquaintance, then have never had the moment at all. It is also quiet fascinating how one moment from one person will stick in your head; that moment had such an impact, it never leaves you. I always remember being at a family friends birthday party, and one boy came up -who had been very reserved most of the night- and just introduced himself. We didn’t talk later that night, nor did we talk after it; though I remember his confidence, and the subtle intrigue he had to know who I was. I remember a neighbor who I only saw for three days, before they stopped coming to my house; they taught me how to whistle on a leaf of grass. I remember they were reserved, but filled with knowledge of little things. Neither of these people might even remember me, but both memories serve me very well.
The boy who introduced himself taught me that it is worth that one moment in time, to just have no fear; even if the only words spoken between two people is their name.
The neighbor taught me that not all knowledge should be shared; some mysteries shouldn’t be solved till the person gives you the clues.
People are fascinating, and the only way to preserve them is through memory, however tiny. Don’t be afraid to be the only one that remembers, be afraid of being the one who forgets.
Each tiny moment in time is significant, if you let it be.
She wanted to be mindless like the tides but forceful like the wind, yet she had to settle for being a breeze upon the shore.
She took mental pictures instead of real ones, because she didn’t want to just be able to delete her life with two swipes.
She found heaven in bitter chocolate, for it reminded her even in life, the horror of things provide substance.
– Based upon the poem Hora Tras Hora, Día Tras Día by Rosalía de Castro. Gracias to two years of Spanish I actually partially know what the poem means; but the NPWM prompt said to listen to how the words are said and the rhythm, and “translate” in your own way.
Hour after hour, day after day,
I’m eternally swallowed,
By tormenting waves that wish,
Oh they wish,
To quench my flame.
However, they cannot be rid of thorns,
Thorns left on the flowers of my crown,
People speak such whispers,
Saying thorns should never be grown.
Don’t blame the flower, for never being worn.
But sometimes the thorns prick me,
I’m left with tattered skin and tears of crimson.
Agh! Why must it always be,
The prettiest things take my heart away from me?