I discovered something on my hard drive today while digging through my journalism articles. It’s a strange little ficlet that I have a very vague, distant memory of writing but it’s clearly unfinished. Our protagonist (unashamedly me) has gone for a walk and is looking for something . . . and that’s about it. Where is she going and what is she doing and why on earth did I write this? Regardless, I liked it and I perhaps will finish it if I can figure out what she’s up to. I’ll have to have a chat with her. : )
Things lost and found
Walking down the street the air was heavy and warm, like it longed to rain but could not find the time. I scuffed my boots along the pavement, tossing up the wet orange leaves that coated the road. The sky was a stark white that meant no drop of sunshine would peek through. It was October. I passed a broken down house, peeling white paint and dusty floor boards. I liked to imagine that house in its greatness, when it was a home, a proper place, a destination. I could imagine chandeliers and old wrought iron staircases playing host to champagne glasses in the hands of pretty girls and distracted gentlemen. Now it was only ever to be passed by, glanced at, forgotten. Could it be in there?
There are countless ways that things can become lost. They might be taken away, given away, misplaced, forgotten, or sold. Finding things is more difficult. The words “being found” suggests that someone, somewhere, was looking, a purposeful searching, a mission. You might accidently stumble upon something that you weren’t really looking for, but that’s not really finding something. It’s only found if it’s being looked for.
I was looking for something, that day wandering the October road. What I was looking for hides out in the most unusual places, it’s difficult to know where to start. Nature and our world is it’s first mother. It’s in the trees and the wind, the grasses and flowers, in the lakes and stars. Sometimes it’s in people too, in a conversation, an encounter, a rendezvous. It’s in the first taste of something delicious and waking up at five a.m. feeling like a child on Christmas morning. When the sun on the water is so bright it stings your eyes and you look into the sky and all you see is endless streams of white.
I was in a field now, grass dewy and soaking up my jeans, and the humidity still hung in the air. I was miles away from ordinary now, no bright lights to steal the stars. The light had faded and a few glittered through the haze of fog and clouds, I drifted around, feeling weightless and lost. Perhaps I would disappear into this fog, I should like to be those stars and watch the world go by. I should find it there in the endless lovely sky, where all the shapes and colors of the world just fade into the simple contrast of dark and light. There and not there. One and nothing.
It kind of gets a little existential at the end there. But an interesting piece of writing nonetheless. I’m not sure if I even can take it anywhere, it seems to be somehow finite in it’s abruptness. I don’t know. Now i’m getting a little existential. Yep. Definitely me who wrote it.