Closed Windows, Opened Doors

A Wall of Thorns

As the sun climbed higher in the azure sky and the glinting dew began to dry, the world slowly awakened, yawning and rubbing its tired eyes. From where I lay in the grass, I saw students arrive, laughing and talking; I watched the campus stir and come to life under the soft, warm light of the sun.

I sat up and leaned against the rough trunk of the tree, seeing the last remaining droplets of water, which clung to the thin blades of grass, be set aflame by the sunlight, which shone like fire suspended in their glossy depths. The peacefulness that the early morning had held was slowly slipping away, being replaced with the hurry and bustle of yet another Wednesday morning.

None of those who walked by spoke to me, few even looked my way.
I sat quietly and observed them, their faces, the way they walked, the way they dressed, the way they did their hair. Wondering about their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their goals, their fears, turning each of them over like leaves in my mind, distracted me from thinking about my own life. They were immensely interesting and beautifully enigmatic, each one a puzzle I'd never quite figure out.

A familiar face startled me.

Acacia.

She walked by without a word; she was as silent and cold as the brisk winter breeze that strips the trees of their multicolored coats of leaves.
I couldn't read her stony expression; her soft, over-glossed lips were drawn in a thin line, her golden eyes empty. I couldn't wonder what thoughts were floating through her mind because she gave no indication that she was thinking anything at all.

The wall she had put up, the wall of thorns and secrets and lies, kept me from knowing or seeing anything. Her barriers had grown so thick and tangled that there was no way to peer through them at all.

She was a rose, a delicate and beautiful flower, glowing with passion and vibrancy, but every rose has its thorns, and Acacia had more than her fair share.

Once, long ago, she hadn't been so prickly. But seemingly overnight she had decided that closing off her heart and keeping people at an arm's length was the only way to preserve her happiness, to preserve herself.

So she'd put up a wall, a wall of thistles and thorns to shut me out and keep me away.

I'd pricked my fingers on the wall of thorns many times, trying to get past the spines. I knew that somewhere deep within the maze of tangled, thorny branches, a beautiful and marvelous heart was still beating.

But try as I might, I couldn't break down the wall of bloodied and blackened thorns; when I hacked away at the woven web of mistruths and distrust, her scarred heart produced even stronger, thicker, thornier branches in response.

She was gone as soon as she had come, like a pebble tossed into a pond, sinking below the surface soundlessly. But her presence had caused a thousand tiny ripples to disturb the calm surface of my soul, she had, with one tiny breath, like a gentle breeze, caused a storm within my heart.

How badly I yearned to burn that wall of thorns into oblivion, to reduce the tangle of thistles to dust and ash.