We, our minds, and the wild things

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Rajna Removic
Member since October 8, 2016
  • 20 Posts
  • Age 17

Oh, where all the wild things are, there rests my soul. Surely dancing among the thorns of heavily scented roses, surely waiting for her time to step into the real world. To live a little bit less in her head. Oh lord! I have just realized: I’ve spent most of my life closed-up in there! How beautifully limiting. Or limitless? Because one needs an open and understanding environment to be his own person and do his own things.

Perhaps my mind has been the most appropriate environment so far. I do not feel that the outside’s people are as interesting as the ones in my mind. They’re not special enough. They do ordinary things: they put make up on, they repeat things pointlessly until they drop from fatigue, they text others when they’re bored and never when they actually should.

Such a plain life is way too dull for me, for my wild soul. I prefer feeling challenged, finding things being the hard way, my brain cells buzzing and in motion. I prefer extraordinary things: not to look at them, but to be them. And that is the first and the most important difference between me and the others. Throughout the day, I smile and joke around, I jump and work and chat. Not me, though, my character, the one I wear every day. She’s me on the surface, but not deep down, not essentially. She’s just someone very average and boring-at least to me.

Everyone identifies her as me, yet she is just my outside color, while the real me is a puzzling, complicated, unique painting. A carefully, gently painted landscape, with thousands of little details and twists that in the end create a wholesome whole. Hilly like the landscape in the painting is my soul. Running from my everyday character to my complexity in a split of a second. Just in case someone who understands suddenly shows up. I have to be prepared!

One day I will have some guests that will see all those tiny details and NOT just the color of my painting. They will keep me company out there, where the wild things are, where I am. Where dreams are not dreams, but rather a mountain to (successfully) climb. There, we will all be together, speaking from the depth of our minds, our brain cells flickering from overjoy and excitement. The thorns won’t be harming my skin anymore, they will vanish, and only vast space, the sun and the smell of those roses will be left.

And me and my fellow companions will be dancing through life and words. We’ll discuss ideas and options, we’ll shoot for both the moon and the stars and we’ll never stop dancing. We’ll dance through the tough times as well, because what in this and out of this world could possibly heal and help and guide more than dancing? Nothing seems impossible when you dance, when you jump from one star to another and talk, oh talk endlessly about what matters most. About humans, life, philosophy, nature, books and music. And jazz! We’ll play jazz too, my company and me.

We’ll live life in notes and dance steps, but we’ll be climbing mountains too, so effortlessly we will stun all things and people in the process. I’ve seen it so many times, people being struck by our presence, our ability to create and...think. To think. We’ll think through our playful tunes. We’ll love a bit as well. But, most importantly, we’ll end up on the top of the mountain. The view up there must be breathtaking: the boundless skies, the burning sunshine, the world under our feet. ’On to the next goal, on to the next mountain’, my companions and I would cheerfully say. And like that till eternity. Or whatever the end of life is.


We, me and my company. That’s, of course, when I find them, or see them, or recognize them in the crowd of boring averageness. Hello! Special people, climbers, thinkers, I am here. I am waiting on you... Oh, never mind. I see you cannot be found anywhere. Come out, my clueless character, my painless surface. It’s another working day for you.

I’ll just be over here, playing tricky games in my mind, where all the wild and challenging things are.

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