My left foot dug into the soil, and as it did the tiny fragments of clay and pebbles that encompass the bank shifted and fell around my toes. I didn’t understand why there was this type of soil by the river or what the magnificent teal-winged creature was flapping its delicate wings in front of me. Or why the sky was fading from a natural pale blue to a beautiful burnt orange. All I knew was what they had taught me, and while they had taught me a great deal of things- about climates and biodomes, insects, sunsets- I don’t really think anyone is ever prepared to be immersed in such a setting for the first time. A scientist can study theories and facts all he wants, and he might indeed be very knowledgeable about a certain subject, but truly wrapping his head around what he knows to exist, and why it’s there, is different. Perhaps it’s easier when the person being immersed in such a setting for the first time is a baby, as most are. The thing wouldn’t be meant to understand. But I, I’m supposed to. They prepared me for this. And I had done extra research. I understood factually why everything was the way it was around me. Yet as I stood there, my breath coming out in rapid streams, I was too much in awe to comprehend the reality of a single thing I saw.
I write fiction stories and occasional screenplays, often about deep topics like food or circuses. Sometimes I add a frivolous touch about grief or love.
Sincerely, a bookworm. 