Scripture of Bravery and Resilience

The passage is cheerful, and the street across is named unfearful. Couldn't decide on my own crossroads. The unfearful road winds me in. To leave behind the occupant who demands without asking was a breeze to lose consciousness.

The sneaking suspicion of the air took me to a nonexistent feeling. The scenery of walking on art triggers an unrecognized tenderness. The nerves of my feet warn me of my bare feet. A restful antique bench relaxes my eyes and pulls me into stillness. Hands reaching to an untouched palette design with warmth and tranquility colors felt harmoniously selected.

The moment transcends reality or a sense of myself desires a shift to the heavens. Nothing before unfearful exists now. I'm holding a celestial timeless brush, with an infinity view waiting to be stroked. Elation impulse felt on my tender hands stroking the celestial brush, and the familiar wind pulled me in. The scenery of a woman appears, glittering strands of waves fall to the side, revealing her long storied life of limitations.

The armor imperfections display her battles. Her shield resembles admirable attributes. Her cracked feet witness the pain endured to arrive. Heroism complements her face with the sword scripture of bravery and resilience.

Airy breeze dusty particles began to travel in the motion of purpose. Clouds seem distressed in their wait for directions. The background dims as air rises rapidly. The wind creates a point of interest, a focal point of view of my own artwork. Rainfall obstructs the viewer's attention. Washing away the warrior woman in resilience.

Rain showers on my feet remind me; “Her cracked feet witness the pain endured to arrive.” Crossroads reflected in her pain. Shadows of her resemble a familiar occupant I left behind. Demands of courage, I boldly walk away. The unfearful road was a time travel to the future. “Glittering strands” and her elder apparent revealed wisdom and endurance. She was a hero, a reflection of who I am.

“The pain endured to arrive.” My own words are hunting me. A cowardly decision took place in the feature, displayed in a narrative art form. Droplets felt like an eternity; the protective skin layers of my face were distressed. The antique bench is no longer appealing, and I felt betrayed by my fictitious mind.

It's raining colors; the touch of the sun's warmth in my hands, and the tranquility of the sky bring memories of the harmonious colors of the palette. It felt like ages had passed, yet the view had clarified into a clear canvas. A sense of elevation unnerves my body. The celestial brush still rests in my palm. The image of the wise lady glances at me as it decorates the clouds with her sword scripture of bravery and resilience.

Newborn colors of sacrifice, bravery, strength, and acceptance appear reminding me of the return to somewhere we know. The clouds have distorted into nothing, no trace of what was once. The colors mix in the bristles and softly sweep the atmosphere. The return with no memory and the disappearance of the witness of the future. An empty canvas resting on an easel; a celestial brush held in hand. Droplets of colors decorate my bare feet. The discomfort of elevation from the high level complemented the view from the window. A confidential voice more of a whisper distance from my breath imprints the resilience of the stillness of the clouds. A wind blows its truth to my core.

Beneath the clouds, the perfect view across the street, an unfearful sign always glanced at me with a ray of light. From dusk to dawn, the post light creates a soft flattering illusion of a pathway.

YOU HAVE ARRIVED.

By Johana Torres