Converse shoes sink in and I feel the tug upward to move on from the heartbreak I left behind only a few months ago. The hotness in the dry sand i would once feel on my feet, feel everywhere - gets in my bra, gets in my hair, slowly piercing my skin to discomfort - but be grateful for it - you’re abroad and isn’t that so lucky. The converse I wish I had as a teenager but never wore, thinking they were too common instead of the reason that they were simply too much to afford. Waste my money on clothes instead, outfits from highstreet european importers of cheap cheap cloth, looked okay for Daniela’s 15th birthday. The air curls around my ears, swirling into past memories of things I once felt, things now resurfacing from this trigger: mud.
Mud pulled me down into a tunnel, the secret entry to the rabbit hole Goldlilocks was too impatient to find. She wanted a nap instead. She knew the priorities. Alice though, she had nowhere to go, hot stepping into the glue the earth cements minerals combined with dense clay all at a suitable rest as the water stays wet. Mud pulled me into a quick bang snap of recollection and I had no choice. To aimlessly wander is forbidden with the innocent consent you agree to when you step outside for a new day. You resign yourself to whatever you’ll step in. The privilege of having feet.
Now is not the time for progress in the literal sense, although my skin cells are still regenerating (slower), my invoices are still being sent out, the sun goes up and then it goes down, the earth spins around it so it’s the Earth that does the up and down, or is it my eyes? Imagine I’m in a field of cows gently mooing with nary an engine to be heard, the grass soft beneath my feet, kinda wet from the morning dew. The sun has set long ago and the stars are swept across the black sky, like a piece of cardboard pin pricked to let in tiny spots of light that can barely reach me. The moon's orbit shines ever white, tries its best to stretch out and reach the edge of my periphery. Stillness. I wouldn’t mind being still, and inviting the world to sit down for a cuppa with me.
Birdsong and the fresh scent of dung is what the doctor’s calling for. My self-doctor. Clarifying mud all over my body and on my face, drawing out the toxins of self isolation and doubt to clear some space for a solution. A place to go, a thing to do, a word to speak. Something. Give me something to do, or tell me to do nothing and close my eyes. Tell me to stop fighting and rest my legs, my ankles that have been beaten and worn from all the running. Tell me there’s absolutely nothing for me to do or think right now. Help me put up these wooden pellets around me to protect me from those who are also feeling the restlessness and try to reach me with their own insecurities and doubt with the hopes that I’ll magick them away, somehow, because that’s what I usually do.