From the Windowsill
Listening to classical music and gulping down tea, I sat from the windowsill.
Quiet energy buzzed in my ears as the music spilled out from my laptop, over the desk, and onto the floor until my carpet was soaked in the piano’s tears.
I don’t get to be here often enough, sitting patiently for the world around me to shape shift as I slow my breathing and take it all in.
I move in slow motion amidst the commotion of waiting for my mind to expand, for it to take me places I never thought I could go.
Paradises littered with sad poets and broken singers that awaken the writer in me.
I build a landscape for myself; mountains made of bookshelves lined up next to one another and a valley of crystals that lays just below the horizon where my eyes always fall before I slip into a trance of twisted trees tickling the ground with their long limbs and cold feet.
My landscape is not seen by everyone but it changes just as the one around all of us does.
It shape shifts when we’re not looking and turns sour when night falls.
Sad poets turn into deadly beasts that rip you apart with every syllable that bleeds from their fingertips.
Thickets of thorns that pricked you now pierce your ears and don’t care if it leaves a scar.
Cold feet become tools to drag you into the dirt until you’re met with the core of this world and burn from the feeling of fire surrounding your skin.
But this is only my world.
I know it is not yours.
From this windowsill, I have lived one hundred lives, met a thousand people, visited a million worlds.
From this windowsill I find my world and sit alone with my tea, waiting for my escape into the next one.