It’s always interested me how simply being away from something for a certain amount of time forces you to see things from a different perspective. I wonder if that is because I change, it changes, or just because I’ve forgotten what it’s like. This walk back from the office through the woods was no different. The tree leaves falling in a storm of cool wind as I am surrounded by the colors of dirt and fire. The river to my side flowing over rocks and roots persistently with the rolling sound of movement seemed to guide me home. As I left the crocked archways of the trees I was dumped on the edge of a familiar white fence that commonly greeted me with a chance to recap while watching the horses on the other side. This time, like many of the others, I wait as one of the horses walks up with a face that seems to ask what it’s like to be on the other side, to be able to explore the woods and take a wrong turn. I look at its hooves thinking about what really happened in the woods and conclude that maybe the horse is better off. As I pat the horse and say my goodbyes I remember why I ever wanted to become a writer. It was the beauty; the ability and power to explain even twist if need be; It was the right to speak without being interrupted. This small town is only twenty minutes from the big city; twenty minutes from anything bad you could possible think of. It seemed impossible to have the two side by side, like the perfect child next to her greedy parents. Someone needed to see this to believe it. I’d live here; I’ve dreamed here, hell, I’d even die here.
