Desolation : An Essay.

Desolation : An Essay.

A Story by Lucy Ford

Just some stuff. An essay for school on nature. All of my writing of this sort are inspired by Emerson, because he is utter perfection. Yeah, and it's really long.

    I have been sitting here, in this bleak wasteland for some time now. One could not be sure of the labels that have been put to the passing of the sun, the spinning of the earth; Time is of no importance, of worldly design. But it is certain that my mind has traveled light-years and the sun has still yet to set.
    I look to the heavens to see nothing but a mixture of dark blues and greys. A scene painted by the melancholy artists' hand, it is obvious he has suffered. He depicts it perfectly in the clouds, on his canvas.
    The clouds seemed burdened by the moisture that was weighing them down, tainting their colour, shaping them formless. The sky seems eager to shed the burden, to cut the ropes and let the abundance of small, individual (yet seemingly whole) droplets fall upon the planet. But, they are holding back, maybe by only pure whim.
    The sun has been masked by the somber, cumbersome clouds fogging it's view of this desolation, masking our paved streets in a blanket of grey. Suffocating us all. I would assume it would be rejoicing at this moment, the one in which it is blind to the horrible modifications we have made to something so pure.
   As I sit in a pile of corpses of browns and sickly orange, I mourn their lives. For, the branches in which they have clung to so tightly have let them fall and stood stiffly as the vibrant yellows and greens drain from them. They sat and stared, silently. They spoke no eulogy, mourned for none.
                                        I pitied the leaves.
I watched as they moved across the pavement in a perfect harmony with the moaning wind, they were dancing. Dancing in death.
   In an instant, for a short moment, my reclusive nature fell from me and I became lucid. I became sublime. I hummed a quiet tune for the dancing corpses, and bid them farewell.

  I watched as a small raindrop fell a few inches from my face, I wonder if the heavens were in awe as well, or maybe the clouds' whim has ran thin, or changed direction. I crawled into myself as the rain began to infect the ground around me. The dirt drank the water as quickly as possible, it could not seem to quench its' thirst. And the parched sprouts of green that has broken through spots in the dirt, shattering it like glass; crawled across the vast wasteland hoping the rest of this earth would shed its' greed and have a slight bit of mercy.
      But of course, mercy is only a pleasant idea written about in story books.
 The rain was falling harder now. Crashing like stones against the pavement, seeking revenge. As if it was holding a sort of vendetta. It would boil when it made contact with my skin, it was burning, festering. I led the horrible liquid over the hills and valleys of my arm onto the withering flower that lay before me, leaving a trail of fire, slipping down onto the petrified being, it spoke its' gratitude by releasing a single petal. I stared in awe as it floated to the ground with the oddest grave and created its' death-bed, among the others.

   I watched as the moon pierced the sky. I held an immense abhorring for nature. I hated how everything was always changing, never constant. Yet, it was so beautiful in its' entirety.

  As much as I adore the nighttime, I find myself now reflecting on the daylight prior. The hours I was wishing away...

   I’ve been watching the sun lately. More so than usual.
What an odd thing it is. How something so far away can be so massive that it provides light and warmth to the people on this earth. Yet, they still remain numb to it. I find it strange, I find it painful to watch the sun rise, and to watch the sun set. For it to only be around for a moment, then stolen away again. Yet, we are all content, we are all prepared for it to leave us again, for it is constant.
It rises.
It sets.
Every day.
All the time.

   I prefer the unpredictable nature of rain, of natural disasters. I find it humorous that people try to predict these things.

Sometimes they are right.
Sometimes they are wrong.

    This all stems from the idea that we are nothing but shells living on the planet.
We do not own the planet.
It owns us.
    We were born onto it in hopes that we would grow and change alongside nature.
Not try to predict, change, and destroy it. But my god, how beautiful it is when the sun shines through my window leaving lines dancing across my bedroom floor, illuminating certain spots of it’s own liking, leaving the rest in the shadows. And when the sun sets; to watch the darkness wash over this desolation.
Consuming everything in one somber blanket.
It’s beautiful.

   The moon was now heavy in the sky, it was but a small sliver of pure white. It ripped through the atmosphere and shed a small bit of light across the rain stained shards of grass, illuminating only the tips like mountains stretched across a black blanket.
   Everything was quiet. Everything, here, in the dark, was just so. It was never changing, it felt infinite.
  I was calmed by the silence and I spoke to the atmosphere, braking the silence like glass with my whisper:

"I may drown in every ocean,
But my perception of your beauty is unchanging."

      ***The way my thoughts, written here, change at such a confusing, unpredictable pace, reflects nature in its' entirety. This was written at various times stretched across a course of a few days. This writing can not be limited by a few emotions, a few thoughts, for it is a representation of nature itself.
And nature is as large as the imagination.

© 2012 Lucy Ford

Author's Note

Lucy Ford
This was an essay in which I was told to go outside in seclusion and observe nature in it's entirety. Of course, I personified nature in a sense without really meaning to and dug way deeper into it then needed. Ah, well.

It's obviously not my best work, but it will suffice for grading purposes, I suppose.

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Added on January 31, 2012
Last Updated on January 31, 2012
Tags: Just some stuff, Kayla, Nixon, crying, lovers, cryinglovers, desolation, an, essay


Lucy Ford
Lucy Ford

Alaska Bound., GA

Kayla. Pisces. Recluse. Escapist. more..

Dreaming. Dreaming.

A Story by Lucy Ford