The Jungle

    Drops of leftover rain water pour down on me with every branch I move. Limbs tug at my long locks, snarled already with leaves and small pink flowers. The leafy canopy above me hides the cloudy sky I love to watch. But that's alright. I enjoy the shade and the smooth, wet stones beneath my bare feet. In this moment, I am a child exploring a new, but all to familiar world. Riotous, untamed curls spill around my neck and hang way past my shoulders. My legs are scratched from thorns and dirt has caked my knees and the back of my shorts; the result of several unfortunate falls. My face and arms are muddy as well, but my glasses have survived relatively unscathed. A blue plaid shirt is tied around my waist, hiding the sliver of soft skin not concealed by my black tank top, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins as I duck, step over a protruding root, and push away another mass of limbs to spy my goal in the distance.

    I chew at my lip and stare at the wooden gate before me, suddenly unsure of what to do. The world I'm in is exhilarating and unexplored. There is so much to discover, so much to do, see, and feel. I want to stay here so badly, I actually hurt. I know that I can't, but I wish I could because I know that when I go through that gate and my rain boots take that first step into the barren expanse before me that I will be me again. I'll have to go back to being a dreamer of a college student whose family is in a financial crunch and whose younger sister has a baby on the way. I'll turn back into the middle child with not enough time and too many responsibilities. I'll have to go back to the world of suicidal friends and monstrous worries and painful, impossible situations.

    I shrink back into the trees, wishing for a miracle so I could keep living in this imaginary world, but a strong gust propels me forward and has me stumbling into the fence. With a final sigh, I take a step outside.

    The ground is muddy, unlike the water collecting in pools in the rocks I've just left. The grass is brown. Dead. Muck sticks to my boots as I make my way toward the pen where my dog, Cosmo, is eagerly awaiting me. The instant I remove the only thing to hinder his escape, he's off and running. I watch him wistfully, knowing that he sees the world as he chooses, and wishing I could do the same. I look back to where I emerged from the jungle, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. But all I see is the fence that surrounds our pool area and, beyond it, my mother's crepe myrtles.