A feeling has eclipsed my soul. It is something remarkably unsimilar to any previous feelings of tranquility I have ever experienced in entirety whatsoever. It is at a time such as this that my mind is completely freed to ponder upon topics that I find normally wouldn't come to be voicedfor fear of ridicule and the usual chiding, contridictory remarks I receive from others when in conversation.
And yet, I fear to think. I love to think. On many an occasion, my parents have warned me to not hurt myself thinking. Is this what they meant? Have I been so conditioned and used to the scoldings from people of any age, older and younger, that I fear to have my own opinions? My own thoughts? My individuality, my mojo as I have ever so fondly dubbed it, has been surpressed! How could I have been so blind? The more I speak, the more am I scolded.
I suppose that that is society in a nutshell. Outwardly, promoting individualty, and secretly tearing individuals apart with magazines, high school, beauty products, shoddy modern literature, and politics. I remember a time when I proudly wore the label of WEIRD that had been attatched to me from the instant I arrived in the school district. I was perfectly fine with being WEIRD. To me, WEIRD meant unique, rare, individual. Beautiful. As time eroded on, I began to wince at that memory. Could I not be like other people? What was wrong with me? Was it because I said "Hello!" and smield whenever I saw a friend in the hallway? Was it because I didn't dress like other girls, because I had never dated? Amidst this were the growing insecurities placed in my head by society.
It didn't hit me until one day as I went for a walk that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to be weird. So what about what people think? Let them have their cookie cutter ways, and their cloned clothing, trying to dress like Snooki or Demi Lovato. Ket them admire who they admire. Let me admire Julie Andrews, Emma Watson, Charlie Chapli, JK Rowling, Laurence Olivier, Jeanne D'arc. Let me wear my nerdy tomboyish tshirt one day, then dress in formal attire the next, and then in my pajamas the next, just because I can. Let me enjoy Jane Austen, Shakespeare, the classics. In show, drearest society, allow me to be and not give a damn about what you think. It has been quite exhausting trying to fit in.
Thunder rolls in the distance and I can see a flash of lightning. Lightning is an admirable force of nature. It does not care were it strikes. It just strikes. I have been following a rabbit for some mintues now. I don't know if my eyes are tricking me, but I swear that this rabbit could be Peter Rabbit, just having escaped from Mr. McGregor's garden, eluding the same fate in pie as his father could not. He is very small, but somehow I know he is grown. He has lovely brown fur and ear that stop and swivel in my direction every so often. I hope this Peter is more careful than his literary counterpart. His nose does that thing that all bunny nose do and he hops away into his den. I'm a bit sad now. I really did enjoy his company.
Peter the Rabbit appears to have led me to a small clearing. I know exactly what to do. I will tell you once I return. I am back. After having made absolutely sure that I could not be seen by a single soul, I began to dance amidst the trees, barefoot. Or, rather, look like a blind, hungover chicken attempting to dance ballet on a trampoline made of noodles and jelly.
That's the marvelous thing about this place. Nature, quite simply, doesn't judge.
