Purity

Sitting in front of an orchid, a constellation of flowers, bushes, and a couple of trees that sit on the far left and right extremities, centering the focus, I feel pure. Pure of the stress, responsability, and of myself. I feel as if I'm lost in a meditative abyss, sinking into my conscience. I can feel the wind brush my loose hair. I can feel it slither through my arms and legs, run up my back, and caress my feet. It seeps between the crevices of my teeth as I breath in. I look up at the sky on this grey, gloomy day. At a close inspection one can see the sun's efforts to penetrate the heavy clouds that blind its vision. But the clouds are unwavery. A sea of mist runs through the hill side. The gut of its mass sits in the valleys, dispersed. I look to the north, where the hills form the horizon, where the clouds begin to funnel right at the center, forming a vignette-like effect. A heavy contrast between what is green and what is gray. What’s colors are full of life, and what’s colors are depressive.

The leaves pertaining to these beautiful Trembling Aspen, tremble. They shiver, they’re tumultuous. They flicker. . . they flicker and flutter, forming a wave of noise, a roar, that swooshes to the north, then the east, and back again. It twirls around me. It spins, and tumbles, she flips and turns, begging me to dance with her. She reaches her hand out and as I reach to take it. . . she’s behind my ear. She aligns her face so that it’s parallel mine. And then she presses her cheek, her soft, warm cheek firmly against mine. And the commotion ceases, abruptly. Leaves, tossed in different directions, swing back and forth until they land onto the gravel. Something jolts across my face, startling me. A cricket.

I can hear crickets everywhere, robbing the world of it's silence. Bouncing all over roads, into our dorms, and into our kitchen and dining hall. With no concern for the world around them, just their momentary needs. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were just like cockroaches; They’re everywhere. But they're nice, I guess. They fill the silence that is awkward conversation. The way they jump around like little pieces of pop rocks in your mouth is hilarious to me. They represent a kind of purity, one found only in a child. So curious these bugs are, frolecking around, whether it may be in our kitchen or in the vast meadows that cover the land like a blanket on this warm fall day. I can see them scurry into the grass below my feet, as if it were some kind of fort. One prances at me, on this smooth wooden picnic bench as I write. I Sit directly in front of a small---decorative---orchid.

It's 8:25am. I would normally say that I'm excited, enthusiastic maybe, for the day ahead, but to be honest I feel a bit anxious. I'm anxious to see my friends, family, my dog, and especially my sweetheart. I miss her the most. The way she smiles and laughs, it completely infatuates me. The symphonatic beauty of monks chanting is incomparable to hearing her voice whistle through my ear canals. But above all things I miss her promise that everything would be okay. That the world, the universe would reward me in a serendipitous way.

I look down and feel her take a hold of my hand. Her fingers wrap between each of mine accordingly, and she squeezes firmly. A moment of bliss, and I close my eyes. I'm reminded that the world still rotates.

I inhale---a long, satiative inhale---and exhale slowly. Purity.