There are some days where escape is necessary, the relief of removing yourself from everyday life and finding a quiet place to sit in the woods and listen to the chirping conversations among birds. Life doesn't have to be detrimental to feel overwhelming. It all depends on the person and their perception of the world. Situations change and people come and go, but this certain spot in the woods always remains the same. My little tree stump surrounded by moss and the pure, untouched flowers that reach towards the sunlight for life is always in the same spot waiting for my return. I like to walk barefoot through my familiar path, guiding me towards my undiscovered haven of green grass and tall trees that remind me how small I really am. I close my eyes and fold my hands together resting on my lap. I could sit here for hours, and sometimes I do, but today, I just needed a few minutes to be away.
Walking back up the street, I can see the dull light coming from the windows of every small suburban house that drags me back to real life. Inside these houses live your stereotypical perfect family. A hardworking yet loving husband and father, a gorgeous trophy wife that cooks and cleans while simultaneously takes care of their adorable and unrealistically smart children and still has time to do her hair and makeup perfectly, and of course let's not forget the pure bred golden retriever that plays fetch with the children during the day and guards the family at night. These cookie cutter houses with these utopian families make me feel sick, not because I hate them, but because I am not one of them. I can picture them all sitting around the table, eating a delicious home cooked meal made by the model wife. They all talk about their day and listen to each other without interrupting, the parents will offer advice for these children's petty problems that they won't realize until later how small and insignificant they really are. Unfortunately, that will never be my life. I walk past the pretty houses covered in red brick, and head towards my past, present, and future. This is where I belong, among the decrepit houses with the chipped paint and broken shutters. The porch steps are broken and there sure as hell are no welcome mats. Welcome home, darling. No one cares that you're here.
Everyone talks about smoking like it's the worst thing you could do to your body. They tell me the stories and show me the pictures of the black lungs. What they don't realize is that maybe this is what I want to happen. Smoking is a slow suicide that no one suspects as a form of intentional self-harming. I slowly inhale each breath of smoke, knowing all those toxic chemicals floating around in my lungs brings me slightly closer to death. It's flirting with fate, really. It may kill you and it may not, but for me, I just like that it makes me feel something. The burning of my chest, the smell of the burning tobacco, watching the swirling smoke dissipate into the sky, it's beautiful yet tragic.
Home is where the heart is for most, where they feel safe and most comfortable. My house is simply a shelter from the outside. On the couch sits my father with a beer in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. My poor father tries his best, but he is sad man. My mother was a lost soul who never received her saving grace that could have led her back home. She struggled with depression which caused her to develop a deadly drug problem. It was three years ago, but not a single thing has changed since the day we all found out, except we all just got older. My father keeps himself in a haze to drown out reality and quiet his mind from any thoughts that would remind him of what his life has become. He doesn't talk much, usually only to ask what's for dinner or ask me to go the grocery store. At only 17, I had taken on the role of your typical housewife, except with my dark lined eyes and pale pink hair, I was far from the vision of a trophy wife.
"Hey dad," I said not expecting a reply
"What's for dinner?" he grunted back at me, his eyes never leaving the TV.
"Um, I don't know. How about pizza?" I shrugged.
He grunted in response
"Pizza it is, good talk." I said sarcastically and headed for my room.
In my room sits the funniest arrangement of mismatched furniture that one could possibly imagine. A twin sized mattress with a metal bed frame next to pink painted wood side table, an old dresser from a garage sale that looks like it endured the pilgrim times, a small and bulky TV from the 90's that sits on top of a stack of books, and finally, a sliding glass door that opens to my very own personal deck. I thought about putting the TV on the dresser at one point and gently placed this dinosaur of technology on top. Immediately, I heard a loud cracking and popping sound so that idea was officially out and I had to improvise with every book I could find in the house. It's a weird and ugly room, but it's functional and it's mine and that is all I need.
I collapse face first into my bed and let out a long sigh. I look up and see the angel statue that my parents got me as a child. I don't know the name of this angel but I know that this statue represents a real angel that exists. I have always felt connected to this unnamed statue in a way that I cannot describe. He feels like a friend or a mentor that will somehow guide me to my life's purpose. It may or may not be true, but this little ceramic statue gives me hope. His blonde hair and golden wings look very innocent and how most people would imagine an angel would look. I always thought angels would look more like warriors ready for battle, they would be strong and determined, but still very friendly and helpful to the humans. Who really knows kind of spiritual creatures exist that we can't see? I don't judge people by their views on this subject, but for my own sanity, I like to believe there are guiding forces that are all-knowing and created us with our entire lives planned out before our parents had even met.