I find peace in the quiet things in life. The soft chirping of crickets and spring frogs and the gentle rustle of the willow’s vines. I take solace in the memories the photos on my desktop infer. How in its sequence one person could be seven years old, and in another be a tiny newborn babe. My heart weeps for all these days I lost in my hormonal adolescence. The precious hours I can never have back. I find beauty in the swirling, dancing leaves; churning in miniature tornadoes in the school bus’s wake. Random breaks of sunlight in a stormy sky never cease to amaze me, and I cannot help but fall in love with every shimmering drop of rain. The smell is intoxicating, like a heavy spring musk or a nippy fall cry. I cannot help but stare out into the treetops as they bow and creak to one another. The wind is an embrace, the likes of which by humans I’ve never had. A soft, reassuring touch that would make a grown man weep. I see infinite forgiveness the likes of which I’ve never heard pass between a human’s lips. I find myself drowning in my imagined Utopia. I do not feel small and insignificant, as so many others in my world would. Skyscrapers only reach so high. Light posts can only provide artificial sunlight. It is the world of plaster walls, carpet floors, and metal beams that create the wild. The natural is some what different. The lion’s hunt, the raccoon’s plight, the alligator’s lunge, and the beating heart; these are the real things that create civilization. I fear for the trees and the budding flowers, for soon, they shall blossom and grow no more. Earth will cease to be Earth, but a metal planet, created and destroyed by man.

My name is Skyla, not Skyler, not Sky, not Skeeter, just Skyla. I happen to live in a world where nothing is as it looks on the surface. My life and my family are filled with terrible secrets, that could tear anyone to pieces; lies, betrayal, drugs, death, consumption, fear, abuse, anything in this world that could go wrong, in my life, goes worse. I have tried for a very long time to be “normal.” But who can really say what normal is? So, I’m coming out of my shell, and I’m nearly ready to open my wings and fly.