The International Writers Magazine: Lifestyles
Myself and I
18 years have
gone, yet this tree continues to grow. These roots have grabbed
hold of the wet soil beneath me, constantly getting stronger,
wrapping themselves round the obstacles and constraints pushing
them back upwards towards the surface.
This is me realising
my life, I have succeeded in moving past one huge rock which has constrained
me grasping my life, and now I am here, doing what I love, writing for
passion, and my roots are getting stronger and thicker each day. To
imagine me being here, sitting in my small contained room, surrounded
in this forest of confusion. Yet feel so overwhelmed and wanted. This
is where I belong; this is pushing me deeper into who I am, and who
I will continue to be for a lifetime. Only 18 years have passed, its
too mind blowing to imagine what could be; only what is, and what was.
So many memories, but oblivious to what my life will hold. Will this
fragile tree be slaughtered and taken away from this never ending forest,
I could lack the light and water needed to continue being who I am and
become withered, my leaves will gradually fall away and I will begin
to crack. So many possibilities, I cant begin to comprehend.
Where I am now I feel as though I am personally being looked after,
I feel strong and powerful, as though I could make a difference, when
once I felt so weak, I blended into the background, my branches were
restricted by others more meaningful, yet now I finally realise my place.
Living seems to be such an easy thing to achieve, but to sustain it,
to fulfil its potential and to try and be who you really are, considering
it, is to work harder than at anything else in this life.
Remember being a child, this growing thing, no thought would occur,
my main worry was how long the sun would stay awake so I could continue
playing with my Barbies in the long grass, before the deep dark,
beastly moon would take its place. Looking into the dark sky I would
think of as my darkest crayon colour, now I stare into the abyss of
black, with lonely sparkles surrounding me and think what is it?,
when does it end? and why am I really here?.
This small growing creature out of a bazillion different growing creatures,
why was I chosen to join them in completing a life, struggling and staggering
through time, my branches so insignificant to others? But I must have
a purpose, otherwise why would I have been chosen to compete in this
journey called life? My branches now seem huge.
© Kat Roberts 2004
all rights reserved