Friday
Emmett enjoys life; how I envy that.
Here, the enormity of the world bellows its size, reducing me to an insignificant strain. The sheer face of the rock, in an endless intermixture of gray holds a versant beauty that is lost in survey, yet emerges in analysis. How like Bella…
In the here and now. Here. Now – not in Forks.
How many times have I run past these stones, slipped through this timber. I've always known it was there; I've seen it innumerably. Why has today thrown each crag into high relief? What secret holds these trees? Has the ground always been awash with this downy flowering, that smells all the sweeter underfoot?
In the sunset, the western cedars shock me with familiarity, but it's not tree itself that seems so familiar. Dark reddish brown with deep rivulets; this is known to me. The blush of the rhododendron, so soft and pink, as if the flower itself were blushing…
Yes, this is known to me. Ah, that it were simply trees and flowers, and not nature made flesh…
I write in hope that my weaknesses, put into entry here, will become as inconsequential and unsubstantial as the paper so that I may conquer them. Am I a coward to become slave to my weaknesses? Is this that burns me like venom, is it weakness? A feeling this large, this all consuming – how can it be weakness?
Tonight, I hunt. Tomorrow, ponder.