As I stood upon the hill, I could not help noticing the disturbance below in the prairie. I tried hard to focus but a thick cloud was swiftly moving my way. Within a few minutes a gust of wind took control of my body and swayed me from side to side. I had nowhere to drop anchor, nothing to hold on to. I looked for a place to shelter only to see dark grey smoke closing in on me from the direction of London. The hill I stood upon was giving way under foot. My heart pounded. I began to pray, the kind of desperate prayer one says when in trouble.
I wondered what had led me to the hill that day, other than to kill off my old self. With the utmost effort I had managed to stay alive, succeeded in holding onto my dignity and to what little I had left. I was lost in the philosophical debate going on in my confused and disturbed conscience. I was a prisoner on the run, running from myself. For now however, I stood on that hill trying to comprehend the battle that was raging below me.
The hill broke away under the weight of my conscience, forcing me to descend to the plane. My bruised body tumbled down, crashing into the mass below, breaking a circle of bodies. They shunned me with despising looks, and I realized that the fracas was down to my actions during the previous few days. In bewilderment I watched, wanted to comment, wanted to correct myself but I could not move, paralyzed by the veracity of the facts projected. I could see myself in two dimensions simultaneously. The reality of what was played out in the projections was too powerful and a hugely painful reminder of the emptiness that hollowed me out just lately.
Fearfully, I covered my face with my hands trying desperately to understand. The prairie should be a safe place I reckoned. It would be a vast Utopia of indescribable beauty, a world of peace in every season. It would be covered by flowers of gorgeous colour and intoxicating fragrance. It would be a haven for wild beasts thundering through the untamed wilderness.
Now my peaceful prairie was a scene from a theatre upon whose stage my life played out in a grotesque performance. My life was full of thorns asphyxiating the pretty flowers and obliterating any vista. No one would be able to tear those thorns away except me. I let them invade my life, blind me and obstruct my path, without me noticing. I removed my hands from my face and I looked around me. I had saw that the sickly grey smoke grew denser, taking the form of a ghostly shadow descending like a malevolent spirit seeking refuge by becoming the protagonist in the performance of my life.
The darkness was of my own making but now it had truly become a force to be reckoned with.
I absorbed the scene before me until we became one. I stood up on that stage surrounded by a myriad of people. I slowly knelt down and with my bare hands pulled the first thorn. I pulled so hard that my fingers bled. A crimson pain shot through my back and through my whole body. But I knew I could not stop. I had to pull the first one, pull the roots out some one shouted, cut the top others yelled. I was no gardener, I was not equipped, but I knew I had to act. I was ready for the next step. I was now prepared to rid myself of all illusions and to choose a path that would lead me higher and higher still, until I reached the mountain peak.
Marcelle Roujade
