The Creek

No one knows how much I miss sitting at the creek with my dog. Who ever knew that life was perfect at 10 years old. Our eager eyes glance toward the future in anticipation. We can be anything we want, even an astronaut. Wading through the creek to the bridge, I lay down and daydream of the adventures I will have someday in space; my imagination already begins the journey and patiently waits for my body to someday catch up with it.

I found deep space here with my eyes closed. I explored the furthest corners of all its possibilities. For hours on end, alone, I made discoveries and met other beings, communing beyond the symbolic limitations of our world. Infinite is the mental universe, just as the physical and spiritual. We just shift planes.

I think I understood the world then, when I was only 10. A witch at my window told me she only went around scaring people because she was lonely for a friend. Maybe fear was the only thing she knew would work to connect to our world. I told her I'd be her friend. For the first time, she smiled and she never tried to scare me again.

I said my farewell, I was tired now and missing home. Perhaps I'll see you again soon.

When I returned home, nothing was as it seemed before. I learned to listen on many levels on my journey. I should never have used that at home. The bishop's words forked from his tongue, slithering with double edged meanings over the congregation. Symbols lept from the book with a magic will of their own and burned into the eyes of those who saw them and gave them power. They fell to their knees in worship of their murderous diety and performed secret rites within his walls.

I watched my days at the creek slip away. The world was polarizing in his name. Perhaps if they had a day at the creek with me, they'd still see the colors that weave through the seasons of these canyon walls. Perhaps the witch at their window would stop scaring them, if they could see through the fear that had paralyzed the generations of hearts long before them.