I itch in my own skin. It is a feeling similar to having a sunburn and then laying on it without offering any apology to it, not lotion or a glass of water. A dry irritated anxious feeling.
To calm myself I go to my brother’s website and I look at the landscapes he has painted and posted online. I think about how the air tasted that morning. Moist, cool and quiet and the world is breathing with the paint… or in another one, it is choked by blinding baking sun light and the stillness is sitting on top of the heavy air.
But the feeling of rest is more just a memory of an echo lately.
We planted ivy and trees this weekend. When I opened my car door and stepped out yesterday afternoon, I reverently touched the one closest to me. Green... I stoked the vine and admired the waxy color of life.
Green… and somewhere there is not a world gone mad. There are not grey walls and bitter silent revolutions eating inside me. People are kind on the road again, Strangers are friends waiting to meet. The world is as I saw it only a couple years ago… That summer we spent chasing storms.
Somewhere I am myself again. Where I write and draw. I don’t fight off people eight to five. I don’t fall out of bed and forget to say good morning to the dawn. And there is somewhere that my skin will feel like my own again.
I opened the garage door in my mind and looked at my door. Open road on an open door. Something is calling me. I am on trains in my dreams lately, speeding heart stopping fast trains. And something is on the other side of the train that I need. I keep trying to get to the other side but the train car shakes and rattles over the tracks, throwing me back.
I had a wonderful weekend. I felt rested and safe. I felt like laughing and teasing. But the feeling came back anyway, Sunday, at 11pm. I ignored it yesterday. Today it is in my face -and now everyone else’s too.
What is nagging at the edges of my thoughts?
To calm myself I go to my brother’s website and I look at the landscapes he has painted and posted online. I think about how the air tasted that morning. Moist, cool and quiet and the world is breathing with the paint… or in another one, it is choked by blinding baking sun light and the stillness is sitting on top of the heavy air.
But the feeling of rest is more just a memory of an echo lately.
We planted ivy and trees this weekend. When I opened my car door and stepped out yesterday afternoon, I reverently touched the one closest to me. Green... I stoked the vine and admired the waxy color of life.
Green… and somewhere there is not a world gone mad. There are not grey walls and bitter silent revolutions eating inside me. People are kind on the road again, Strangers are friends waiting to meet. The world is as I saw it only a couple years ago… That summer we spent chasing storms.
Somewhere I am myself again. Where I write and draw. I don’t fight off people eight to five. I don’t fall out of bed and forget to say good morning to the dawn. And there is somewhere that my skin will feel like my own again.
I opened the garage door in my mind and looked at my door. Open road on an open door. Something is calling me. I am on trains in my dreams lately, speeding heart stopping fast trains. And something is on the other side of the train that I need. I keep trying to get to the other side but the train car shakes and rattles over the tracks, throwing me back.
I had a wonderful weekend. I felt rested and safe. I felt like laughing and teasing. But the feeling came back anyway, Sunday, at 11pm. I ignored it yesterday. Today it is in my face -and now everyone else’s too.
What is nagging at the edges of my thoughts?
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