Like a scratch in the back of my throat the nostalgia of heartbreak comes rushing back and I’m not sure if it’s a specific name-able, diagnosable sadness, or just the fragility of all existence weighing into the atmosphere that settles around my soul. And I want to purge and run from it and destroy it. After the wave crashes the thought flashes and it’s gone replaced by a glassy solid line on the horizon. I’m safe again but there’s so much to look at that keeps going and going and going. I see a threatening mortal eternity in these rising, falling dunes, in the ocean’s wingspan, in the road to the next destination, in the unfinished pressure of living, of survival. I know the dessert will return, dubbing me with the thirst of a thousand generations. It comes back—unhealed wound that memory is.
There are things I cannot speak about without sobbing.
There are things I cannot think about without fear. I turn quick to the distracting sounds of heartbeats or breathing of music and movement that erases some thinking.
Be only movement and sound. Be only ocean salt foam water. Be only the gravity between the past and right now.