A Photo That Turned Into A Turtle
This is not my turtle. In fact, to this day I don't know if it ever belonged to anyone. During a long week of pet-sitting, I became achingly overwhelmed in boredom and on a nice sunny day decided to read on a small black table near the owners' pool. There was a small pink resting flower from the overhanging tree already on the table right above where I was reading. This flower combined with my black hat, that I eventually took off at some point, naturally drove me to begin taking pictures of this relaxing moment. There was a nice scheme of black mixed with the natural flora of green and pink from the backyard. I began taking pictures of the authentic scene before trying different angles and eventually moving my hat in different places. I even started going a few pages back from where I was reading for the beginning of the chapter, so the book looked less submerged in the text and words. With my phone in hand, I noticed it was about time to feed the pets I was watching; two dogs and three cats. I got up from the table and left the scene I created on the table for future pictures. I headed to the other side of the pool under the canopy where the pets ate which was near the sliding door of the house and next to a long sprawled-out hose. I do not remember exactly what made me look down as I stepped on the garden hose towards the pet food, but in the rubber snake's grasp was a baby turtle! I instantly dropped what I was doing and picked up the turtle. It showed little activity and barely any sign of life. After much research and a prescribed bath of warm tap water, the turtle finally peeked its head out from its shell. I then began to look for any nearby water sources. Google Maps showed there was a park nearby and a small creek through the middle of the neighborhood. With the turtle in hand, I began wandering around much of the neighborhood. The creek turned out to be under the neighborhood somehow and the park had no bodies of water. I wandered a bit more towards an empty field before turning back to the park to ask a resident if there was any water nearby. I ultimately came up short. There was, however, a notorious creek in the city about four miles out. My older sister, who was going out to dinner in the surrounding area, offered to take the turtle there for me. In the meantime of waiting for her arrival, I pulled up a chair next to the kitchen counter and watched the turtle. Since our little journey around the neighborhood, the turtle was now very active. So active even, I had to constantly keep it away from walking itself off the kitchen counter. I began taking videos of it walking from one side of the shot to the other. Of course, I took some photos of the turtle before my sister eventually arrived and set them free in the nearby creek. The photos ranged from a bird’s eye view to close ups angles, which turned into the picture above. By the time my sister arrived, the sun was setting. I said my goodbyes and my sister would later send me photos and videos of the turtle happily swimming away. Afterward, I eventually went back outside and collected my picture of the hat and the open book that was still resting on the table under the night sky.
The word purpose rests on their table. Your eyes drift from surgeon to butcher to stay attuned to the direction of their noise. Their words only teeter your brain further into the walls of your skull, tightening a tension that already existed. Their divine language is incomprehensible to your innocent ears, despite it being the very language you speak every waking day. Preventing your mind from dragging you to the place where virtue is patience and creativity is simplicity, is commitment holding your feet to their ground. Steadfast, you question their ambition for they are not philosophers seeking a holy verity to life. Instead, they are writers and linguists who theorize with curved hypotheticals. A brewed pressure leaks through the cracks of your skull, soaking thoughts until the anatomy of a story is nothing but opportunity for their minds. With pencil in hand, you begin to stitch the lines for your vindication with hopes it will forever conceal you from their world.
Today, I thought B was 8 Yesterday, my writings lacked what good stories are made of Tomorrow I will stop writing entirely