Pangdunji

Nothing is what it seems six feet under. I keep catching flies with an open mouth and wonder why voices speak of me from a distance. Footsteps muffle and break the daffodils perched precariously over my head and the sky feels so blue it hurts my eyes. I can hear the secrets that make the grass go green with spite and birds' twitter sounds like little old ladies playing gin rummy and cursing under their breath over the gossip they're missing. But the worst part is I smell the reek of winter seeping through dirt in dry roots pushing up dead daisies some lazy relative left as an after-thought and know a sickening truth

Can I paint you a picture, using just my words? Can I tell you of a clear blue river, flowing gently over smooth, colorfull rocks? About how the sun reflects off, casting bright spots and shadows on the dull green and greyed-blue rocks under the surface? Or about the tall, reedy grass that grows along the bank? And the clumps of cat-tails sprining up at random? What about the wonderful weeping willow, grown right near the edge, with a semi circle of oaks and maples around it? May I explain the forest throught which the river flows? About the green, green, leaves and red brown trunks? The great reaching branches, intertwined like an e