Pink Mountain Heather

      I guess I hope there’s something for me at the finish line, that’s the only thing brutally dragging me to the end. I can’t think too deeply about what it could be because then I come to the burning realization that it doesn’t exist, it’s something I have to find and there’s more work to be done. 

      If there is no proper trail to the line how can anyone know how to escort me there? The simple answer is they can’t and I trudge along an unknowing path alone. Family members tell me to be grateful, not everyone gets the opportunity to do just this “it’s a privilege” and I’ve “got a full ride”. Foolishly, or possibly selfishly, that doesn’t help. It doesn’t help me to work better, faster, and smarter magically. It doesn’t help my assignments get in on time nor raise my GPA by that .3 I want but just don’t care enough to work for. Life is hard and we all have to do things we don’t want to do. I’m so sick of that. That, also, does not magically fix the problem. 

     I keep hauling along another day and even though I’ve done nothing, the burden of nothing weighs heavy on my shoulders, and my neck starts to cramp and I start to cry. I lose interest in independently reading, a favorite hobby of mine, because everything is piled on thick and it gets thicker the more I push it off. I don’t hike, I don’t play my instruments, I don’t talk to anyone, I don’t eat, and I never go outside. There is no magic word to change this and there is no ridicule harsh enough to motivate me further. 

     I stare at another assignment I just don’t care to read, I stare outside and look at the weak twigs of the elm and don’t care to be out there either. Instead, the Pink Mountain Heather laces up bundles of tricks in my head. Its bushy petals mixed within weedy crabgrass etches memories never had though never forgotten. I think of the other side of the pond, how the trees are thick and if I run fast enough through them I can disappear. My figure will toss and get washed within the needles flying up from the ground behind me. No one can hear the short breaths that weigh me down because the forest floor will be too loud. I have no book, no pen, and no paper. I am alone truly and fully. I have officially escaped. There is no praise for good work and no criticism of bad. I can just be and think in the ways that I choose and the ways I feel. No control, no deadline. I make all the rules and decisions. It won’t matter if I am solipsistic, I’ll be in solitude anyway, right?

      Now because I know I cannot stay here I pluck a weedy flower golden from the sunlight and bag it up to go. I sulk down the mountain and sob saying goodbye to every rock and creature I passed along the way, hoping to see them again soon, or in any future. Once I make it to the bottom, my eyes well with unstoppable tears, I shake hands with the Bristlecone pine, and turn to avoid the closing of its arms.

     I return to my computer, the blue light quickly drying out my eyes, and mash together a somewhat decent paper. The bottom of my bag is now filled with wilted petals and I submit the assignment a day later.