Panic

I don't like selfies.  I think I look like an idiot, smiling blankly at a mini plastic box. I decided to make this exception so you could come with me and Luna this evening.

It's cool and dry and warm and the air is rich and there are deer up the mountain behind me and quail dodging Luna's scrabbling feet.

Panic is a funny button.  One I usually prefer to push by myself.

I enjoy it sometimes simmered with coffee. Other times it is better toasted with wine.

Sometimes, like this evening, I like most to take it for a walk.  I dearly love to walk.

Once away from accidental eyes, I take it out of my pocket, unfold and smooth out the creases and picture it becoming as large as a bed sheet made of tissue paper.

I shred it into little pieces, and as I do, I imagine it turns into different colors.  Then I toss this confetti of color, so light they float, up into the air.

I let these tiny thoughts of fragmented conjecture wash around and over in waves of salty release until at last I let them get mixed into aspen leaves ruffled by the wind woman's hands.

I get that this is a mental game, a head game.  I get that, I do.

I realized a long long while ago that life is just one big head game.  And the best thing to do is to be the one running them.  

And to go for a walk with a friend.