Last week as I crossed campus between classes I was struck by the winter scene around me. The sprawling lawns of melting snow and slush, while ugly on their own, had given birth to something truly beautiful: windows bursting with color and shape; portals to another world. I am attracted to puddles I think mostly because when I was younger I believed if you jumped hard enough into one, you could fall into the reflection on the other side and wake up in another reality. I never succeeded in doing this of course--all I ever got for my trouble was soaking wet clothes and a scolding. But it was fun to imagine.
I think each one of us creates a separate world for ourselves in our youth. A place to go to escape the awkwardness of growing up, the fights at home or at school, the confusion of questions unanswered. Increasingly kids have turned to video games or movies for an escape, while the more dedicated find solace in books and adventure series. I found happiness in both these places, but my best escape was always in my mind. Take me to a park and I'd make the grass lava and the swing-set my castle. Put me in a waiting room and I wouldn't flip through magazines or make small talk--I'd imagine stories for each of the people around me, guessing what lives they led and what symptoms had brought them there that day.
As I've gotten older the desire for an imaginative escape hasn't left. If anything, it's gotten stronger (which probably explains why I settled on a creative writing major rather than something practical like engineering). Don't get me wrong--I can be serious and face reality head-on. I enjoy school and work and the scraps of a social life that I manage to squeeze in. But there are days when tragedy seems endless. When the heartaches of those around me echo inside until I can't think anymore. Days when the world seems so darn ugly and human beings so unfeeling that I'd rather belong to another species. There are days when I am so fragile that the slightest thing could crush me, and the strength within is not enough. There are days and there are days.
It is in these moments that I turn to writing or photography, poetry or sketching. Something to create that the world cannot corrupt. It is in these moments I turn to puddles.
I look both ways to make sure no one is
watching.
I brace my feet.
I jump as high as I can.
And I pray, that
when I land
it will be Somewhere Else,
Somewhere Far Away from here.
Maybe I hope that I will be Someone Else too,
on the other side
of the
reflection.
