Snow crunches under worn heels, marking a single path across frozen empty cornfields spread afar and ever so still. It is an empty canvas, glowing lustrous in the light of the splendor above. The night is ablaze in flickers of light cast scattered across the darkness. Upon this frigid expanse I stand alone from the world, but for the dead remains of cornhusks trapped beneath the ice. My skin burns from the bite of the wind, but when I glance above, caught among the stars, I am perfectly content.
Growing up in the suburbs, I felt alive and yet, overwhelmed. Pulsing with electricity, the whole world was one click away, at my fingertips. A network of sights, sounds, and puzzles spread out before me, an overpowering and uncontrollable force. My life is run by schedules, planning each minute and precious second out in harsh ink. Everything must be in order, must be under control, and must have a purpose. Real life doesn’t run on a schedule; even the smallest decision can alter the direction of the future. I am frightened of just how much I am unable to see, how much I might overlook and be unable to safely tuck away in the far recesses of my memories. In the suburbs so close in contact with uncontrollable chaos, I am not can never be perfectly content. Instead, I find my peace in the middle of my Grandfather’s cornfields.
Dependence on control defines the way I run my life. It thrives upon my unease of the unknown, and binds me from moving against of what I am afraid of. I fear