Life / Nature

The Unprocessed Day

Oh my God you guys, I can’t even write about it this time! I have nothing to say. My heart was filled to the brim just when I thought it may have emptied. I’ve had the most amazing weekend. I’ve no way to put this eloquently. There aren’t words luscious enough to begin to describe this joy! I’ve tried I tell you. Spoken word about fruit and hands flying in the wind cannot even touch this unconscionable feeling, but you know me, I must try.

I have an acorn sitting on my dining room table. Forever is the length of time I will keep it. I tried again to whistle with it, failed; but I don’t even mind. This morning there was no processing. I don’t need to make sense of this, its sense itself. It’s reason in my madness. A shout in the void. Oblivion doesn’t feel inevitable. Hawk Ridge, I say, laughing to myself when he corrects me. What a beautiful day! Lying in the sun under the trees, warmth to my bones, to my soul; it soaks me through to this very minute. The second I shove myself forward and away, a reaction. Tit for tat, immediately. In stride. In my eyes, an open book.  Flip, skim, but never flit. A little bit of blush, a flush, a rush of pride to the cheeks. My God the beauty in that, and how it makes me weak. My hands raised in surrender, deep breaths as if giving up my tension is the only option, release. I was so wrong. It’s not too much that is the problem, never was, no; too little is the problem. Yes, that’s sin by definition, the lack of something good. My lack of this is sin itself. Madness, I tell you. And when I turn my head I can smell it. And I love it. Sassafras leaves, black snakes, and millipedes things that I will cherish. The smell of Halloween. The trail barely seen. The slipping and falling, the cuts on my legs. Every bug bite that itches, serves to remind me of that gorgeous day. Me at home. Where I belong. Why do I do it, you ask? Because I love it.  I love every messy second of it. Like the cuts and bites and bruises; I don’t even notice, not until I leave my home. Each one just reminder of what I’m missing. The only reason they hurt, itch, or twinge is because I’m homesick. Every one a stuffed animal with a smell, a taste, a feeling of what I’ve left behind. Because in the end, days like these become memories we long to hold onto and miss sooner than they leave. The kind of day when something is so good that it makes you sad, because you know that everything else is taupe next to that day’s cerulean or crimson…chartreuse. No, vermilion, yesterday was vermilion. It clings to my lips and colors my kiss, and I hope it always stays that way.


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