Intuition, a true constant; born an indigo child with strawberry hair.
I need to drive to a solitary place, alone, to reflect, to watch the white machines. To breathe; the air is different here. Different than the city. The air is pure next to the twisting giants of steel.
I love the city. I love the liveliness, the cranes, the windows that go up up up. But the perception catches up with the novelty of it all. The people, the immense amount of people; they get to me. When my chest starts feeling heavy, I know it's time to go home. Home to Au Jus french dip. Home to my beautiful mother.
I need to drive to a solitary place, alone, to reflect, to watch the white machines. To breathe; the air is different here. Different than the city. The air is pure next to the twisting giants of steel.
I love the city. I love the liveliness, the cranes, the windows that go up up up. But the perception catches up with the novelty of it all. The people, the immense amount of people; they get to me. When my chest starts feeling heavy, I know it's time to go home. Home to Au Jus french dip. Home to my beautiful mother.
I wonder if it's possible to feel too much.
To share the pain a perfect stranger sitting next to me is feeling.
More frequently, to feel when someone close to me is in a bad place.
I read a case once, about twins in London who felt each others labor pains.
It's comforting, almost, to know that other people cope with this. Some form of this.
And so I ask myself again, is it possible to feel too much?
"The Universe is off. Can you feel it? The wind is blowing backward."
That's what she tells me, when she can feel it too, when the feeling can't be identified.
I wish for a different constant. An unvarying solid.
A constant similar to childhood, with my youth residing in the salt house.
To share the pain a perfect stranger sitting next to me is feeling.
More frequently, to feel when someone close to me is in a bad place.
I read a case once, about twins in London who felt each others labor pains.
It's comforting, almost, to know that other people cope with this. Some form of this.
And so I ask myself again, is it possible to feel too much?
"The Universe is off. Can you feel it? The wind is blowing backward."
That's what she tells me, when she can feel it too, when the feeling can't be identified.
I wish for a different constant. An unvarying solid.
A constant similar to childhood, with my youth residing in the salt house.
When I waited every summer for my friend, the praying mantis.
Eagerly searching the hot cement for his translucent wings,
the ones that shone like lime sherbet under the heat of the sun.
I watched his spiny legs cling to my finger, and tried not to wince when he dug too deep.
When rain replaced the snow, and sun replaced the rain, I knew he was close.
Because my insect friend was habitual. He came back to me every year...
So I escape. Escape the indigo. I drive, alone, to a solitary place, to watch the white machines.
Eagerly searching the hot cement for his translucent wings,
the ones that shone like lime sherbet under the heat of the sun.
I watched his spiny legs cling to my finger, and tried not to wince when he dug too deep.
When rain replaced the snow, and sun replaced the rain, I knew he was close.
Because my insect friend was habitual. He came back to me every year...
So I escape. Escape the indigo. I drive, alone, to a solitary place, to watch the white machines.
Turning, turning, turning.
There's something mechanically beautiful about them.
But something the naturalist in me loves as well, I can watch the wind blow.
But something the naturalist in me loves as well, I can watch the wind blow.
I can breath the pure air I don't feel in the city.
I can hope for childhood.
I can hope for childhood.
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