The countless proverbial sayings that float within our social universe don’t mean much of anything. I find myself treading through the same water. Every witty thought prepared me with a revelation. It would only do me good with experience itself. Piggybacking off of the wisdom from the older, more thought of, it has a funny way of fooling the presumptuous.
The ground felt cold as I played with it through my fingers. With nothing to gaze at except the horizon and countless fields to cross: it all came out as a desert filled only with the tall straw colored grass. Only that cool breeze coming from the west, and only that, followed with a welcoming familiar feeling. The house was the only exception in this land of grass. The insides would turn dull in comparison to almost any view.
But then, there was one place I would later find to be of great interest. The attic, well, is where the inhabitants would turn to, to throw out the pictures becoming too painful to remember. There in the corner was a chest filled with a lovely white wedding dress. The attic, and only the attic, was dusty and neglected of attention. There would be great pain in throwing any of these things away, simply in light of all the guilt that would be carried along with the long trip to the trashcan. I thought they had lived meaningless lives, at least, until the day I came upon that strange unspoken room.
The attic was the only room I understood. It was also the place passion could safely hold a physical form. The letters in boxes were once secrets to be held and loved. I understood nothing. I was young, and only the attic explained how anyone could bare to stay in such a place. Teddy bears, worn out dresses, children’s blankets, baby bottles, the crib with teeth marks, and even the chest locked tight with the most passionate secrets, they all explained why anyone would stay forever in such a neglected place. It was their memory which held them down to such a dull and unending place. Strange that it was the attic that held the sole duty of remembrance; everyone else was too busy trying to forget.
This would be the place I would work the ground, at least for the summer. There would be no beauty in this soil, not until I found the crop growing from my gasps for breath and dripping sweat. Nothing less than my constant unending time would allow me to understand that which held me down on earth. No poetry, not a single book I brought with me, not the dwindling letters that flowed from the city, none of it would give me the insight to understand the hands that grew the crop. I understand nothing of the place I live in. I will never understand this place until there has been work from my hands, and a broken soul.