Once upon a mirage, in the expanses where grass whispers secrets of old, there were whispers of a time untouched by trappings of social media and urgent buzzes of notifications. Curious, isn't it, how these fields hold memories of erased histories, like urban streets hold the weight of hurried footsteps?
I'd often walk through these lands, my feet sinking into stories embedded in the soil. Like a palimpsest, the earth itself records and re-records, a canvas of leaves and roots scraping new manuscripts over old manuscripts. Do you think the weeds question their roles in all this? A bit like Shakespeare's forgotten characters, confined to plots beyond their control.
And then there's Marge—Marge has been here longer than most landmarks. She insists that the sun once kissed these lands differently, with more grace and less rush. You see, her idea is that these fields are like giant mirrors, reflecting all the stories half-told or perhaps never told. "They changed the script again," she chuckles, "but I'll keep the original, scratched in my mind like a vinyl tune looped for eternity."
Last Tuesday, I met a fellow trespasser, a painter who called herself "Perpetual Stray." She saw abandoned fields as forgotten stages, ready for the drama of hues and shadows. With her brush, she painted over the invisible edits made by time itself. Sometimes, I think, you need to toss the book away and rewrite your own rules in splashes of orange and green. Or maybe pink?