Wednesday, October 21, 2020 - Spinning Alive - Rahil Najafabadi

Spinning Alive

I’m standing on the grass at Central Park, but I’ll soon be gone. It is a temporary step. One I will forget about in a short while. I don’t know what I’m looking for; early morning, bare headed and before all the people have come and crowded the bit of Earth that feels like home.

I’m on one of the small bridges and I feel funny. All I can sense is a funny feeling, like something’s stirring in me. But now I feel a draft of wind that is temporarily reminding me that I’m alive and alone. I walk alone. I think of the unhappiness that is taking over my steps. I want something to make me feel alive like I really, truly am. Yet to feel life is different from living it with a funny feeling.

I can see the green that reassures me of my liveliness. The signs are all there: my feet carrying me down a path, the coldness of my skin against the willful draft of wind, and the greenery that just won’t fade. My smile and liveliness have faded long before it has bloomed. Perhaps I’m senseless. Still, something is missing, and I can sense its lack of existence from the imbalance between the Earth and me.

I reach the boats and there is no one there but me. I stand near them by the edge of the grass and it feels like they are all pointed to me; the funny little boats. What if I just got on one and started paddling away? What could stop me?

Nothing; no one. It doesn’t matter as much as I think. One boat away from the other boats, still the world will keep spinning. Again, it’s my own head spinning. Thinking about matters so small, the world oversees them within each spin. I know one little spin will stir everything within. I move toward the circled hues. Not so green, they are colored blues. Life feels uneasy, dizzy and colorful in this state: on the edge of the grass, on a boat, in a place I shouldn’t wait. Even the thought of these funny feelings shakes my life again. I won’t stay on the grass, and I won’t get on that boat. I’m only waiting. My new life is hiding between the blades of grass and it has sunk below the boats that spin.

I’m walking. I’m waiting. I have no clue of what’s ahead, even though I’ve gone down this path alone for quite a lifetime. This journey no longer feels like a stroll in the park on a chilly, lonely day. The right way to say it is to sing it: I’ve let the world present life to me in its own spinning ways. I don’t picture the railroad I run through anymore. I’ve been waiting for a gift, a chance, a change or two that’s been long overdue; and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I go toward the fountain. I like seeing brides and grooms taking pictures here. They go along, not destined but decided upon the steps they take. We all walk on the same soil one way and a million others. I know I want a life as lively as these trees. I know I want it because I can see the beauty and feel it too. I walk, only this time, I walk toward the life that makes me smile again. To move toward a hidden thing that’s also everywhere is like spinning around. I like spinning around. I’m stepping down. I’m at the fountain, I dip my fingers into the green water. It covers my fingertips in life. The drops of life drip down as I spiral, dance, and step away. Each step continues to mark my liveliness. I’m spinning. The green drops of color circle me. I’m a fountain of my own, flowing with life like a boat set free where it belongs. I am alive and I feel it spinning within me.

________________________________

Rahil Najafabadi is a multimedia artist and writer from Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Most of her work includes the elements of her hometown in setting, theme, and style. She hopes to live in New York and pursue a career in creative writing.