barefootink
Crunching in the sand, shards snapping beneath my bare feet. Like an alligator snacking on bones as I dashed along the shore. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythmic beat of my feet as I ran across fragments of ocean.
Anything is possible, they tell you in school. In life. At sporting events and every day we defy the odds. I've learned, in recent months, that the possible expands to new horizons, to new incredible creations and solutions, when you work as a team. Two can achieve more impossible things than one. And me, I like to think like Alice and imagine 6 impossible things before breakfast.
Yesterday I went to visit a girl who had been in a car crash. She was one in a crew of 6 kids. The roads were wet and the speed limit sign read 35. The speedometer was fluttering at 100. They flipped the curve, tumbled in the dust, branches ripped the roof from above their neon heads. Everything glittered in the tumult of ruined adolescence.
What an awful word to have to write about: distributor. It's an undignified word to describe what Santa does with Christmas presents: he distributes them.
The storm came in unexpectedly with harsh gray blue clouds swallowing up the trees. The runner weathered it out, bearing the hail that crashed down like the O's in Alphabet soup. His socks slipped, his balance shook, and the cold ran shivers down his spine. He splashed his footprints onward.
I would love a straw hat. To sit outside in it and drink lemonade on a sunny day by the ocean. Or in the ocean. I imagine it would feel exquisite to hold the brim down on the top of my head in the breeze while I throw my head back in laughter. Surely this is Happiness.
Romance isn't dead but it isn't a fake dinner or a nice restaurant or showing up at the door with flowers. It's loving someone and dedicating yourself to their honor. Romance is the small sacrifices couples make for each other on a daily basis. Romance is the kiss goodnight old couples exchange after a lifetime of being together. Romance is the four leaf clover presented to you for luck from your besotted.
You can always tell when it's about to rain. Everything goes quiet, even the insect's wings. They disappear into the hollows of tree bark, beneath the ground, into the sea of leaves. And it pours.
I'm sinking into the pool, swimming. Water filling my lungs as I reach up, grasping for empty air on dead fingertips. I sink and glide, hands outstretched into the suffocating emptiness. This is the feeling of disregard, the feeling of worries slipping away.
I breathe.
I'm not as certain as I was before that we are separate beings in separate bodies in separate minds. Sometimes I wonder if we're all shadow thoughts of our ancestors, shadow thoughts of our old selves. What is a thought, anyway?
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