Poets logo

Still

On Moving #VocalNPM

By Amelia Clare WrightPublished 5 years ago 3 min read
Like

I was overwhelmed by a

frenzy of anxious self-destruction and a

fit of the walls closing.

I’d like to say that this night was an anomaly,

that it is memorable because it was

uncommon.

But the truth is that

these nights crept up on me

suddenly and

frequently.

Nights where my hands

shake with unease and

my nails grip my triceps and

hold on tight as if I might

forget myself,

lose myself in

mental distress.

My chest was taught and my legs were itching.

Too much thought.

Too much head.

I needed movement.

Mist and fog blinding September,

a world damp with the memory of a melted sky,

I went to the Esplanade,

downtown Boston propelling me

away.

I was all body on the Charles River.

All frigid limbs and

numb lips and

back of my head against wet wood.

On the dock, a plane caught my eye;

I sprawled out,

tracking it,

head straight and unmoving,

rigid-necked,

hoping my pupils would roll back into my head,

detect whatever disaster was taking place and

determine how to clean it up.

Along the path of the esplanade,

a tree grows tall and

thick and

bends itself to the pleasure of those who pass.

I curled my body into the wood of it and

watched as my limbs

turned barky and damp to match.

I could have slept there,

nestled between nicks in the oak.

But immobility is not my strong suit.

I disappeared again into the dark of midnight.

Two miles behind me

wasn’t enough time

or enough different,

and the same wasn’t enough anymore.

I wandered the same streets over and over,

thinking I was getting somewhere new.

Tried not to find metaphor in that.

My soul mate said once

that I spend my entire life

running away

from the feeling of being trapped.

My teeth fell down my throat.

She revealed me,

unearthed a truth I hadn’t recognized.

A deep-seated,

don’t-acknowledge-it,

perception-changing

kind of truth.

I walked because I was afraid

of getting stuck where I was,

here,

afraid of getting stuck somewhere I hated.

I walked because,

here,

I never wanted to be.

I walked because

as long as I was moving,

I wasn’t really here.

Still here—

in this city that doesn’t know me,

that is crooked and wrong,

that holds me hostage.

The magical thing

about walking with your struggle:

it works.

Three hours,

6.4 miles,

because I could feel myself slowly suffocating.

I saw the river move,

and I moved,

was moved with it.

I cried at the saddest song

I’d ever heard and

nobody knew,

the dark and

the mist and

the emptiness

carrying my drama for me,

shielding me.

I got excited about things—

slow shutter speeds and

the way my writing changes depending on what I’m reading

(how amazing it is that things change so easily)

and corporeality,

and mercury and the moon.

I found solace in

roaming under frigid skies—

a cure for bitter misery.

I sang to myself,

for myself,

stepped through leaves and

ducked under branches and

touched spider webs and

earth.

Moving is not a running from, it is a meditation on being with.

nature poetry
Like

About the Creator

Amelia Clare Wright

Amelia is a recent graduate from Emerson College majoring in Communications Studies. She finds passion in language, photography, and learning, and hopes to pursue a life full of all three.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.