I wanted to not write happy things. To not grow or move on or wish for anything. I wanted to lay down in a field and let the blue and purple flowers overcome me. To let their tender, fragrant petals push gently through muscle and vein as though I were a giving patch of Earth like any other.
I did not want to be great or good. I did not wish to face my past, to rise to the future or to even seize the moment. I wanted nothing to do with any kind of time-keeping. I wanted to rip out all my connections to the world and stuff all the ports, the cable access points with pale blue flowers. I wanted to turn off the gravity switch for all the thoughts orbiting around my head. I wanted to run away from destiny, to erase all the lines carved in my palms and all the scars I had earned. I would not have hesitated to slice any red thread that dangled from my finger with the same scissors still gleaming with strands of my hair. I wanted to not chase truths or mysteries. To not be bound to anything but my heartbeats, my breaths.
All I wanted was to lie down. To be, in the simplest form. I needed time to be with myself. Myself, not the voices. Not the part claimed by rising smoke. Nor the one filled with emptiness. When that happens, when I am with myself, when our silences align, there is nothing left. No plans, no voices. Not even poetry or music. Only the Earth, the flowers and I travelling around the sun.
Only the flowers blooming through my lungs remain, only the petals intertwined with my lashes, blossoming in my breath. Distantly, my fingers ran through the softness of the earth the way hands sift through a loved one’s hair. And when I held it, felt it in my palms, it was rich and consistent and true.
I wanted to paint myself the colour of Earth, but realising I already was, I dipped the paintbrush in wintry blues and pale purples, watching gardens slowly grow on my skin.