THE JOURNEY OF LIFE

 

My life is a painting,

A journey,

A boat trip down a winding river,

Fringed with looming houses,

With shadowy curtains

Hiding the interior.

Houses splashed with angry reds

And happy yellows

And sad, sad blues.

Homes

Of friends and enemies and teachers,

The strangers of the world who are most familiar

To my weakened memory.

I am but another passenger for this gondola to take away

On these murky waters -

The rows that lead this vessel

Deceive me into thinking that I control them,

Even though I already know

That the invisible hands of fate direct my path.

 

The gondola continues down the constricting canal,

When all of a sudden,

It flows into a lake,

Beautiful, crystal clear,

Dotted with swans,

Drifting gently like the clouds in the sky.

I feel so light-hearted and happy!

The lake’s siren call pulls me in,

And I’m swimming with the mermaids.

Laughter falls off my lips,

As our fingers touch tips,

And I grasp for your hand,

But you slip away, slip away,

And the lake tugs that moment of bliss slips elsewhere.

Why must fate taunt me so?

As the lake’s black, inky claws

Free me from its icy clutch,

I notice the edge of the lake getting closer.

Here comes the deep, dark, forest,

And the big, bad wolf within it.

 

Strange sounds come from it.

I grip the edges of my raft -

These waters aren’t gentle,

They aren’t like the tender facade of the lake.

They toss me around

Like loose change in a pocket.

The trees are all different colours,

And mushrooms grow at the base

Along with other strange plants.

The trees seem to be stealing my breath,

Their leaves blocking the sky,

And the light,

And I’m left rocking on my raft

Down a dark, suffocating river.

The ravens swoop down,

Clawing at my face,

But I can't tell the difference

Between their screams and mine.

The skeletal hands reach from below

And grab my hands and pull me under,

The water filling my lungs

As fast as the lies filling my head.

 

Images flit past

In the murky water,

Lands of nonsensical dreams,

Fantasies and reveries,

Like soft clouds drifting on a summer day.

The tick-tocking of the clock

Which slowly chews at my fragile mind,

Filled with racket, like a Sunday market,

Until the noise stops.

 

My life was like a painting,

My own, but like any other,

Until fate stroke a match

And dropped it

Near my painting of life,

And the paint that seemed so vibrant,

So alive,

Melted away into a brown puddle.

Leaving not a trace of what was,

Except for a whisper on the breeze,

Or a reflection in the water,

To be found in another’s painting

In another time,

And another place,

Where the journey of life

Can be picked up from where I left it.

 

(Emma Dimitrova. 13 years old, 25/02/2020)