It is no place at all. It’s the million tiny strides I’ve made nearly every place I’ve gone.
It is around the block.
Up the hill, where the greenery overhangs the road telling you, you’ve made it.
It is the rocky dirt path bordered by vibrant leaves companioned with a
flushing cool river. It is along Boston’s breathtaking Charles River, through
the campus of William & Mary, up the decorated streets of San Francisco. It
is on the humid beaches of Fiji and on the outskirts of New York. It is where I put one foot in front of the
other and allow myself to dream. As each breath escapes my mouth, troubles lessen,
possibilities open and I am free for that moment. My clear mind begins to write little fantasies,
and long novels, few of which have been put to paper. The pounding of my feet
on the pavement hurts those who have hurt me. The swaying of my arms remind me
of all those I’ve embraced. The scenery, no matter where it is, swells my heart
with gratitude. It is a time to pray, heal and imagine. It is my quiet place.
Another Writer's Challenge I did for Write on Edge. The challenge is outlined here.
Thanks for Reading,