American Authors

American Authors

An Oasis:

A world cannot be perfect because humans are imperfect. We can try our best to correct

our wrongs, but one person's view of wrong can completely differ from mine. I can’t quite put this

into words. The best I can do is try to explain that my oasis is someone else’s Hell.

I cannot write about a happy, beautiful, light world because I don’t believe there is or can

be such thing. But I can write about what makes me feel as if I am in an oasis.

Not necessarily a place of imagination, but a moment in which everything is calm. My

oasis is not a thought or a dream, but a small period of time in which everything is happy. It is

very much a reality and occasionally the conditions are perfect.

It starts with a dim light from the sun, struggling to break through rain clouds in the early

morning. A light breeze blows through an open window in the top floor of my house in which I

sleep. This wind rustles the numerous plants kept in the vicinity. This draft smells of fresh earth

and water.

The air surrounding me is cold and harsh, but I am warm. Surrounding me are numerous

pillows and blankets. I have just woken up, I have no reason to move, no reason to think. Just

breathe.

In these moments I cannot perceive a world in which there is hate, murder, rape.

Innocent