Mud

I stand in a flat mud land. All I have in my hand are strips of paper. I think about making those paper stars that my sister used to put into jars as presents when we were little. 

Instead, I sit right down in the mud. I do not care that it will dirty my clothing. "Splush." It is done. I run my hands through the cold mud and think about what it means to be a buffalo, running their skin through the cold mud every day.

Before long I am lying down in the mud. I smile. The sun is setting. Soon I will have the cool of mud and the wonder of stars to keep me company. I have run away.

I think about my warm bed, but I do not miss it. It reminds me of comfortless comfort, of smiling limbs but broken hearts. I splash the mud again.

I ran away from everyone and everything. I do not think they noticed, except for the lightness of their hearts. I am the happiest I have ever been because I can hurt no one and no one can hurt me. The barriers and walls that I used as a metaphor in my adolescence have materialized around me. The stars won't hurt me and I won't hurt them.