I'm tramping through the woods.
When I decided to come in here, I was angry. I'm still angry.
But my attention is being diverted.
I'm tramping through the woods. My fake Uggs, which I threw on angrily, are shuffling through the leaves. I'm surprised the few layers I have on are warm enough in November.
The ground is covered in generations of dead leaves, but I like it. So little here has changed.
I haven't been here for years. It's bizarre. The last time I was here, clomping around the cluster of trees that was my childhood hideout, I must have been ten or eleven. I was obsessively imaginative, projected Laura Ingalls Wilder stories onto the world around me, and plotted building a mud hut up here and running away. My fantasy was running away to live in the woods in a mud hut.
And now I'm back. I'm back, carrying the context of AP classes and college planning and general high school stress. I've spent these years wandering around the Internet, learning about the environmentalist and minimalist movements. I've taken Environmental Science and my textbook contains excerpts of Thoreau.
Yet it all seems irrelevant. The articles, the blog posts, the science, the everything. It's got nothing to do with this reality, with these trees and rocks and hills and dead leaves that once made up such a huge part of how I saw myself.
This small patch of land is not paying enough attention to realize that I am walking both in my jeans and my girly, probably purple-based fourth grade outfit. Without realizing it, I have left an imprint on these trees, an image of who I was that only I can see. Or maybe the trees have reopened a mark they left on me.