witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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My feet are not my own. They quiver with a brittle uncertainty like a crystal vase rocking back and forth on the ledge of a tabletop.
Any moment now, my bones will crack.
At the base of where my feet should be will lay a million shards of glass, and my torso will come crashing down, with my upper half reflected in those sparkling slivers.
But who will I be without my legs?

Some nights I tangle myself up in a high so potent, it doesnít unravel until noon the next day. And I donít mind the mornings. Being high. At school.
Winding through the hallways like a leaf tumbling through a storm. Or am I the storm?
It doesnít matter; I drift with such a dreamy ease. The patterns of the tiled floors ripple like a tide and I play a game with myself: walk as though there isnít a sea beneath your feet. Just stay afloat.
I pass through the wave of other students as though they are my anchors.
Iím the bait. For any shred of humanity. If I slip and drown, I can reel in the ones who cared enough to pull me to the surface.

Though the surface is just an island with a tawny spread of sand. The castles we build are as vulnerable as the footsteps we leave behind. The water delivers us then pulls us back in with the ebb and flow of life.

I can't be sure of what I'm really writing because it melts from my mind to my fingers the way ice on pavement does under the blistering sun. Iím letting myself pour into the cracks of my own thoughts. Iím awakening, releasing, unfastening myself from winter.

Because to me, winter is a padlock, eating up cities until spring loosens its chains and summer finally unlocks it. I hear the rattle of the chains and it stirs me eagerly. Soon, weíll don our sandals and our suits and prepare to swim within that same water last season we found ourselves drowning in

12:34 p.m. - Tuesday, Mar. 16, 2010

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