A box wrapped in brown paper.
I stand still, staring at the unknown package in front of me. All my senses seem numb to the world that was wearing me down less than five minutes ago. My hands stubbornly shoved in my pockets, seeking warmth from the cold wind that stirs the autumn leaves from the dying grass.
There is something that this box means to me. Something I have yet to discover. I feel an unexplained magnetic pull that finally has me taking the five steps to where it sits, almost haphazardly, on the path leading to my front door.
My fingers gingerly wrap around the edges of the box, the brown paper crinkling as my grip takes a firmer hold. It is strangely heavy for such a small package, motivating my tired muscles to work harder to support the weight. I look over the outside, finding no markings, stamps or address written upon the crisp cover.
With a frown deepening on my forehead, I walk to my front door and push it open with my hip, stepping into the warmth of my home. I walk into the spare room, one that I have yet to find a purpose for, and which currently houses a few belongings that offer a glimpse into my life. An old guitar sitting in the corner that I still haven't mastered, photos and scrapbooking materials scattered against the other wall that I started and never finished, among a myriad of half-finished hobbies and projects.
I don't like this room. This is the room that possesses all my failures to mockingly darken the water that I already can't see through. Nevertheless, I feel that this is where I need to be. I sit on the soft carpet in the middle of the room and place the box down in front of me. The only window in here offers an attempt at providing natural light, shadows falling where it's too weak to reach.
Turning the box over I find the sealed edges and pull them apart. As soon as the edges separate the brown paper unfolds in a flower like fashion to present the contents that it holds.
A single graphite pencil.
I reach for the pencil, unperturbed as to how the box was so heavy and holds nothing to justify the rectangular shape that it appeared to be previously. I hold the pencil in my hands, turning it over to see that there were no markings on this either. It was however, sharpened to a perfect point, tested by curiously pressing my finger to the end.
The paper on the floor now sits clean and flat, inviting me to mar the surface with the pencil I now hold. Leaning forward I press the exposed graphite to the paper and draw a single line, humming in content as I hear the satisfying scratch of pencil on paper. I continue to draw lines and shade in shapes with no awareness of what I am creating. I am seeing everything as though through a microscope. The lines are think and dark, standing out even against the brown of the paper. There is a slight shine to the graphite left behind and microscopic flecks break off as I draw across the material, creating tiny smudge marks when I run my fingers over them.
I don't know when I'm meant to stop, or indeed how long I have been sitting in this room. I draw until a ray of sunlight shines directly onto my face. My eyes close against the beam that filters through the window, the warmth it provides drawing me slowly out of the trance I was in. Blinking against the light a few times I open my eyes, watching with simple fascination at the specks of dust dancing through the rays that are bathing the room in a golden glow.
I feel light, lighter than I have felt in many years. I drop the pencil to the floor, no graphite left to draw with, as I look at what I created.
And I smile.
I smile for the first time in so many weeks that it feels foreign for my muscles to move this way. The feeling that is coursing through my body is just as forgotten but welcome in every possible way. I feel a warm tear make a solitary track down the side of my face as I pick up my drawing. I find some double-sided tape amongst my scrapbooking materials and fix it to the back of the paper.
The light from the sun guides me to the spot on the wall where I stick the paper that holds a message that I finally believe to be true. Stepping back, I look at the bold words shining in the golden rays.
I AM ENOUGH
About the author
Hadley writes about whatever sparks the creative seed that propagates down an unknown path. She has completed a Bachelor of Applied Science and is challenging her cognizance by studying Psychology because the mind is a fascinating thing.