I hunkered down at a picnic bench, allowing my mind to wander and create the stories within my head. The park was tranquil, as every so often a dog and their owner would stroll by. The leaves on the tree were fading into different colors, and the sun began dropping, signaling the commencement of fall. I came there to sit in peace and be outside, generate tales that I have been putting off for a long time.
Usually, when I’m at my happiest, I unlock a flow state where I can construct stories on the fly. It’s a form of creation that derives pleasure for me, and splashes color on a relatively bleak reality. However, as I have been, stress can inhibit any surge of creative movement. With that, I perceive life for what it is: the facts. Instead, I rather drop a preposterous dye onto the mundane and allow it to soak in.
I wrote and wrote, sometimes reaching a halt, but eventually, an idea arose and broke open a gap within my consciousness–entry to the flow state is now accessible. I paced around, circling my table, changing positions, reaching for my camera. It was my own island within the green fields of the park. Isolation, a spot where I could be and think independently and freely.
The leaves descend by themselves, one by one, until they are all scattered in a mosaic against the ground. As leaves make the plunge alone, it symbolizes the essence of fall for me. Fall is typically a moment of solitude: whether it’s for self reflection, to replenish myself, or to simply create. For good or ill, I seem to reel back into seclusion.
I wrapped up my work and shoved my computer into my knapsack. At this point, I’m the only one occupying the park. I ramble over towards my car, parked by it’s lonesome. As I tugged open the door, another car pulled up. It’s a man in his thirties, accompanied by a black lab in the back. He didn’t look over my way; just sat there and gazed at the open fields. I backed up and pulled away, leaving the park as it was, for himself.