listen to a slow plodding sound. footsteps on a pine needle forest floor. sloe gin clouds fuzzing by, blurring the atmosphere with amorphous movement. it was me pressing through the syrup of days, all dried out and looking. breathing steam rising up hairy. taste the way that it moves like grass growing down your tongue and through your throat. but this will never do.
Run. run through the next frame. Plod no more as you search and search and let it go while your fingers blur and the toes can barely grip a thought before you're landing on the next. there's a lightness that comes from moving this quickly like an outstripping of the thoughts that hold us down, a blur that others can't pin, a sound that's too loud to hear by those who think rationally. running quickly and out of control we laugh down the hillside as the ground turns over our heads and the rocks and soil leave their mark on skin that's torn and ragged. but even though our teeth fall out and our tongues dry up it doesn't matter as our spirit slips free from confinement.
it feels like chocolate chip cookies in here.
and my knee hitches.
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