witty-remark's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - 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. Some nights I tangle myself up in a high so potent, it doesn�t unravel until noon the next day. And I don�t mind the mornings. Being high. At school. 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. I�m letting myself pour into the cracks of my own thoughts. I�m 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, we�ll 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 |
||||||
|
||||||