Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Written, rewritten.

September 20, 2017

 

This will sound crazy, but whatever. We know each other well enough at this point. When I was a kiddo--young, like 5-8ish--I used to hear voices. Not voices-in-my-head voices, but voices in the woods. We lived in Rhode Island, and behind our house stood an enormity of woods, or so it seemed; I loved going off by myself, pretending I was making potions and medicines from the leaves, flowers, and berries I foraged there. 

 

Two conditions necessitated the voices; one, I had to be alone and in the woods or two, I had to be alone and just drifting off to sleep. I have absolutely no idea what they were saying; they were whispers, murmurs from an overheard party downstairs when you were supposed to be fast asleep upstairs--that sort of thing. 

 

All I know was that I found comfort in it, inclusion. I didn't try to intrude on the conversations, and then one day, they were gone. You see, I'd grown up enough to 'know better,' despite the fact that I never told anyone about them, and even if I had, I would have been encouraged rather than worried over. 

 

So maybe now that I've decided I've truly never known better and never will know better, they'll return? I don't know. But if I overhear anything, you'll be the first to know. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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This Quiet Earth