Existence

I do not live in a bedroom. I do not live in a house, a contraption of claustrophobia.

I am the offspring of Mother Nature.

I rise each morning with Sun. The green blanket of Earth tickles my skin, soft as Squirrel. In the hug of a warm willow, wee Owl rests. Camoflauged beneath the web of dewy maple limbs, my alarm chirps Sunrise. I pick parts of my earthy pillow out from my fawn-colored hair and my morning shower, a spontaneous drizzle, decides my natural scent has become too much for the Robins to Bear. I wash up and attend to the melody of my stomach.

There is a wall of trees, but I do not suffocate. The air still breathes and the sunshine peaks though the maze of leaves in the sky. Rather than bound me, the maples and oaks and willows and birch hug my existence in the open meadow.

The sun drops on the horizon, night covers my eyes. 

Time.

The sun rises on the horizon, morning lifts my eyelids. 

The harsh sun disturbs my sleeping solace. The grass blades cut my skin, now texturized with a hellicious rash. My allergies begin their daily tantrum. An owl, fatiqued with darkness, succumbs to circadian rythyms on a protruding branch. Tweets pierce the atmosphere, though no bird nest exists in the trees, but rather atop my head. My hair, tangled with twigs, is an animal within itself. Thunder rumbles in my stomach, and the cumbersome quest for food commences.