There is a place among trees, a lonely bench, old, a bit rusty, and unseen by people, that far aside it is. I used to sit there, when I was 10, reading fantasy books and parting myself from the world, as much as I could.

I was sitting there, sure no one sees me, living my pain silently, when the broken soul didn’t need words and human attention.

After four years, I returned there, to hold my memories for a bit in my hands. Sometimes, I feel like past is a burden, which holds me too close and too feverishly, making me dream about times that weren’t perfect, but I see only beauty in them, removing pain and sorrow with a rubber made of leaves.

Sometimes they heal. Sometimes they hurt.

I am feeling like gossamer lately, torn between past and today, too afraid to let go, and too comfortable to go forth.

Gossamer which dances lightly in the air, a wind fairy, following its element.