My World in the Style of Woolf

Light breaks through a slit. The misaligned planks of wood cast dark in contrast with the brilliance of the sun’s ray soaks in the morning dew, and the air is filled with a scent like a combination of pine and grass.

Rays falling through the uneven cracks of the shabby wall warms up the small space enclosed by even more wood, nailed forcefully and disorderly into place, quite clearly by an inexperienced builder. Between fissures and crevices in the timbre just under feet, woodlice and termites appear then disappear and reappear, crawling in crooked lines with uneven gaps between each trail.

Outside, the once thick and heavy fog thinned and lifted, leaving crystal-like droplets on every surface of the lush green which glistened like gemstones. Around, all of life began to thaw as a golden glow blanketed the emeralds, peridots and jadeites of the wilderness.

High up, the air is cool and the wind a constant whisper, as if it were breathing secrets to whoever would listen. A bird chirps a morning call, a squirrel rustles the leaves above in response, and below, a bloated frog croaked unpleasantly, intruding into the conversation of the sky.