It feels stupid to write. To try and be as creative with words like they’re magic spells. Because I can’t compare to the greats, the great peers of mine who so effortlessly pen words and make beauty as they paint them on the page.
I plagiarize, “talk dirty to me forest floor”, a scrap of conversation between us, between the human cocoons which hold us, and trap us. But it feels so good to be held, to let the nylon threads contact every inch of me, keeping me above the ground. The hands of the hammock cradle my too tall too wide body, effortlessly-you are so so small beneath us. I crane my neck upward to the tops of the trees, as they sway way up above me, they talk. It rocks, back and forth so subtly I almost don’t notice. Almost.
"Caterpillars go into cocoons to become butterflies. What do humans go into hammocks to become?"
And I think. I think about this. I go to hide. To be held, to feel safe. I come out, and long to go back. I go in so that I can feel held. So for fleeting spots of time, I can feel small.
There is such anticipation in everything. In the half melted pond, in the brown and rust and gray colored everything. Keep Exploring is the blanket, taking polaroid pictures. The fascination with the photos-anticipation. We snap, and we wait for the image to reveal itself, as spring does, slowly. First just inklings, outlines of what we think and hope it is. Then the details and colors begin to shade in.
Half magic, half ordinary nothing. But I guess that’s life. Ordinary magic.
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