| Amelia Meyer | 630 Willard Ave. Rochester Hills, MI | Nightwish--"Last of the Wilds" | chipper
I sit cross-legged on my unmade bed, comforter and blanket nestled around me loosely, my pillow wedged against my lower back. My wrists are laid lightly on my knees, and my back is held in a relaxed, straight position. My eyes are just closed. A warm breeze blows through the open window.
A deep breath in through my mouth, held patiently for just as long as is comfortable. An exhalation--but slowly!--through my nose, with the sweeping focus point washing through my mind like a warm, deep blue wave: CALM
A thought pops up; it is studied carefully as a prized possession, followed through in full, and then washed away naturally with the next exhalation. CALM
Soon, I am no longer on my bed but leisurely strolling through a well-kept, sunlit old-fashioned library with oaken shelving and leather-bound books in neat order. A librarian discreetly joins me, dressed as I am in light-colored kurta and salwar kameez. The twain of us with hands gently clasped behind our backs walk silently through the aged bibliotheca. She asks at the right moment if she can help direct me--it has been a while since I last visited and there have been many shelves added and partially cross-linked in my absence--and I nod politely, falling an easy, measured two steps behind as she takes the lead.
She guides me past well-remembered and less familiar shelves containing volume upon volume of writing, some neat, some not so neat, much in pen or slightly smudged pencil, some in crayon or brazenly-coloured pen. The copper lettering on the deep brown bindings slowly creep upwards in date, from the first few truly self-aware, conscious thoughts that entered my five-year-old mind through my self-developing years in middle and early high school, to years of rapid expansion of worldview and awareness of others in late high school and my first year of college, to much more recent, dingier times of self-discovery and the first few missteps, faltering stumbles, on the road established since eighth grade.
She notices me slowing as we reach these troubled times when the winter was around me and indeed seeping into me, and gently inquired whether I needed to review any of these volumes. I glance again at their bindings, at once both exactly as well bound and kept as all the others and yet somehow somewhat darker than the rest, and reply that these volumes had been reviewed more than warranted another inspection at this time. She softly assents and, turning on the ball of her foot, leads the way to a series of wholly unfamiliar shelves smelling sweetly of newly-bound books and fresh-cut wood. These were the volumes tidied away by my subconscious mind in dreams and in idle moments, undisturbed by my conscious mind in meditation for many months, and dearly requiring a careful understanding and integration into my whole. I thank her, and she slips away, parting the air as seamlessly as only a good librarian can, leaving me to ponder over the detailed history of my life, viewpoint my own, of the last three months.
The next indefinite number of hours pass, watching me work through page after page, volume after volume of smooth new paper, carefully and neatly filled with writing in crisp black pen. The viewing continues undisturbed until I am finished. I stand, and the librarian glides around the corner of shelving, unbidden at exactly the right instant. She wonders if I have seen what I needed, and, replying in the affirmative, I ask to confirm the terminal still stands where it has for the last several years. She answers in the positive as well, and swiftly guides me to it. I sit in the deep, well cushioned armchair, resting my hands lightly on the rests and looking ahead at a smooth section of unshelved wall that rapidly becomes a wide, clear screen. A simple, smooth graphical interface greets me, and I quickly open several terminal windows, focusing in on the relational links between various volumes within the vast expanse of shelving behind me. I enhance a few here and there, especially with regards the freshly-laid pathways just made not five minutes before.
The time rapidly approaches, though, that I must be done with my work here, and so, closing the windows cleanly, I rise from the chair to be greeted by the librarian. She guides me back to the entrance of the venerable institute, where I bow deeply to thank her for her help, and am thanked in kind for my visit. A few steps through the door take me to a spare plain, with a bright blue sky and rich, full grasses around. Ten minutes' walking brings into view a dearly-loved wood with a large lake in the center, with a small sailing boat tied up quietly to a short dock. I look at it wistfully, but it is time to leave.
I take a deep breath in through my mouth, hold it just as long as I can, then slowly release through my nose CALM. A second iteration clears the wood from view, and I am once again back in my own body, with a slightly blue sense of peace filling my being alongside the warm pink satisfaction at successfully integrating the last few months' experience into my worldview and being. I rise and head out of my room to greet the day in full.