Just a quick sketch. From the heart. This nature. I love it.
I stand on the brink of the moor, billows of purple heather swelling above and below. Torrents of wind rip at my hair, rendering my ears insensible to any sound but the steady roar; my legs are rooted to the very earth—I’m a tree, a green, a daughter of the moor.
Jaw slacked in a round of awe, wits tuned taut to the symphony of beautiful carnage about me, the coercion of the tempest traps me to my place on the cliff-edge, where the elaborate cataclysm of the cosmos unfolds at my feet. I have been smothered by reams of heavy cold velvet, tossed and thrown by the tyrannical gale, ensnared by the power of nature. I am spellbound by the sight of the storm sweeping over the moor.
I am all but in possession of the key to happiness, the secret of my accursed identity. I am teetering on the brink of a mighty epiphany—but it never comes, and I know it will never come. My porcelain mask has been crafted to perfection with such care and compassion, and yet that mask is what smothers me. Those around me have fallen in love with my mask, and I am the tiny timid soul cowering behind, drenched in fear and embarrassment, seeking redemption in the wrong places.
But here on the moor in the storm, I find myself. I find a quietude and depth of soul in this destructive joy that lies in no other idol or vista. The pain and potency of this mighty maelstrom engulfs my spirit, fulfilling the emptiness of the untold lonesomeness and fear that irks my soul so.
The calm comes with unrest and guilt. I have hidden from duty, and duty will chase me as I run. So I leave my place of violent vivid life and return to the constraints of time and people, where there is no escape and no respite from desolate boredom.