I was running a picture it and write competition. And with help from Ermiliablog, I was able to find a winner.
Congratulations Kristin Bowles
I couldn’t help that it was another perfect day. The daylight was breathtaking, families milled about cheerfully outside my draped window, and more birds than I could name were singing songs of praise for life and the good weather.
I’d walked around in the glory of the day earlier. I’d felt the sun lightly toast my face, flushing my skin with live-giving warmth. I’d glanced into other’s lives and reveled in the beautiful view of families smiling together. I’d soaked in each vivid sun-drenched color around me. I’d walked, foot fall by foot fall, down a road I knew and yet had never seen. I’d walked back, knowing it no better.
I can’t say how many hours it has been. I’ve been sitting here since I walked back, staring at my escape, as if this intense scrutiny will force it to tell me its secrets and grant me the solace of a glimpse into the future.
I can’t help that it is a perfect day. I can’t help that it’s not perfect for me, either. I can’t help that this room I’m sitting in, at this table, in this chair, will be gone in mere days. I can’t help that my searching for answers and jobs and work and money and a means to support myself has lasted week after week, month after month, and to this day I still have no way to even keep this room to live in. I can’t help that my bank account is as empty as my pantry, and the only bottle I have full of anything, I’ve dumped across the table in a sorry attempt to gain prophecy and some last semblance of hope. I can’t help that my endless battles against circumstance have culminated in a losing war; my early victories, few and sweet, cannot stand against the bitter floods of defeat that wash over me at every turn.
So I’ve turned to my prophets, my little solutions, my mask-makers and falsifiers. I’ve spread them out in conference with my tear-blurred eyes, beseeching them to make it right, make anything right, make something – just one thing – right. Please