The Meadow

We’ve come to an end of sorts. November has reached its closing days, and soon the full might of frost will take force. The days are becoming shorter, colder, and damp. Of course, I hope you are feeling none of those things, and looking at the brighter side of winter as you probably are. Glistening snow in a flurry about, and a nostalgic bliss for the holiday season inbound. Wherever you are, just know that cheerful times are coming.

Of course, welcome back to another edition of Stadarooni. Many of you enjoyed last weeks outing in storytelling, and for the blog itself, it was a milestone in many ways. I thank you all tremendously for your likes, follows, but most of all those of you who take any time whatsoever to view these posts. I may have not been as dedicated to this blog over the last few months as I should have, but know that it is still just getting started. Last week, we reached 15 blogs posts including the two announcements I made, (and 20 including these ones) and the last post is the most liked one on the blog at this point in time. While analysis seems to be the norm on this blog, why don’t we have yet another story for a second week in a row?

Enjoy. 🙂


The storm is inbound.

Not just any storm, but one that will lift you off your feet and hurl you in twenty different directions at once. That storm that nobody sees coming, yet everyone knows it is in their hearts. One that you leave you broken and unbroken, very much alive and dead in one go. Nobody can escape its grasp, no matter how much you flail your arms, drum your legs, and mutilate your body. It will pierce you and you will embrace it.

I didn’t see it coming. Neither did you.

Once, I was an innocent youth. Why should I be scathed by the fire of the storm; the destroyer? I frolicked in a gaggle wherever I went; experiencing life as the train you catch to work every day. It picked me off the ground with its tender embrace, showing me the ways which I would follow. Friends, family, education, work, age, and death. I smiled at the thought of immortality, at love, and at the thought that I would live with those I cared about for the unforeseeable future. It felt set in stone, like the grand meadow that stretched the horizon and was untouched by all but beauty and eternal perfection.

I cherished the notion of all-encompassing security, and home felt like my place in the world. My own personal bubble, fluttering in the air like a monarch butterfly on a summer eve. My wings of gold shimmered through life, and everything felt like it had a sweetened purpose even if it truly did not. This pristine value carried over onto school, and I embraced every single droplet I was given. I felt enlightened and empowered because of it. The world was my playground, and I could dance in that grand meadow to defy both gravity and time.

Such premonitions are quite ignorant, I am afraid. The monarch butterfly is an image I still relish in infinite nostalgia, yet that empowerment is like a boulder. You are stuck in one place, held down by arrogance and righteousness. Of course, both of these did not come until later on, when I ripened into the thing in which I feared very much.

Time deteriorates all but the eyes, I learned. And yet, meaning can shift whenever it chooses to.

Knowledge layered over itself in many reiterations in the intermediate years of my childhood. I found myself extremely intelligent beyond measure, and competition was an unfortunate effect that felt like a hurdle that stretched skyward. There had to be some way to overcome this adversity, and I was restless in my efforts. I did question if it was worth it to pursue intellectual perfection, but I pushed on forward. Was it the result of being in the part of a community of equals, a disastrous pursuit of what I craved, or the very nature of education?

The world was a tomb, with everyone having dreams of desires that burned hotter than the sun itself. It sparked more hope than the stars and its realm of possibility unreached the vastness of space itself. At one point, I stopped dreaming. That dream of the monarch butterfly persisted, but it lost its meaning. My creativity had been crippled and had lost its way into the blue beyond. I felt like there was nothing left on this path, the path that the course of life had dictated for me.

Friends, family, education, work, age, and death. Now, I was not smiling. It was the tower that loomed over me, a path that was actually an inescapable plague that infected its victims with submission and simple content. The meadow felt like an unreachable destination: I was in the thick of the urban sprawl, a monolithic engine that controlled us all.

However, the storm is still coming. Do you not hear its whirl of false hopes that restrict the very core of who we are? Do you not see its mazes and puzzles that only a few have the answers to? Those who escape the storms reach really have not. They continue to walk, but the really do not. They are hollow, feeling and unfeeling at once.

My education was supposed to prepare me for the worst. There was something that life had not taught me in its initial embracing words, and I could never prepare for no matter how much I anticipated it. The storm itself, and what it entailed. For some, it ended in discontent, and for others, it loses its lust. For others, it is a hole that can never be filled, and some fill it with its antonym. I felt that antonym, that strong feeling towards myself on my crusade to greatness.

The storm is inbound, and it will test who I have developed into at this moment. It will test you as will, as it is all intertwined. Perhaps you have no idea what my words mean, or what they carve. I am too afraid of what will come after if anything will at all. There is one fleeting hope that fills my heart, though.

The meadow, and its vast horizon that sprawls the distance. The flowers that grow, die and are reborn for what seems to be forever. The blue skies that embrace your skin, and the clouds that are the bringer of continuation. An emerald-green against the backwash of the horizon, and a sunset that fluctuates in a dance of crimson spectacle. Colours that have whatever meaning we bring them.

You can give that to me, at least.


And once again, we come to a close. Hopefully, this story was at least as enjoyable as the last few, and not as subtle as the last one. I hope it brings optimism, as the ending does for me. Of course, mark down November 30th as I stated last week, and the announcement for my ‘December Plan’ will reveal itself. December will be the best month for this blog bar none, (maybe with the exception of the smorgasbord in July) and I hope to see you there. What is in store will be an exciting way for me to provide posts in preparation for the holiday season. Of course, enjoy your day wherever you are, and I will be back very soon.


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