roselightfairy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
roselightfairy) wrote2020-07-21 07:10 pm
roselightfairy) wrote2020-07-21 07:10 pm
Entry tags:
Summer
The water in the river is nearly brown, but what I wouldn't give to plunge into it.
It's the sticky season, the stagnant season, when sweat and sunscreen mingle into mulch on my skin, and the heat is ever on my heels. I waft the door open and shut in the morning, hoping to chase out the heavy air; I flee to the shade of the park and gaze out at a river I've never seen anyone swim in.
I shower cold, and warm water sluices down my body.
It's a season of stillness, of loneliness - of lying on the floor as if to hide beneath the gaze of the heat, of greedily gulping at each sip of fresh air. A season of staring at the photos of others' adventures, wondering if I'll ever find one of my own.
It was always supposed to be the season of freedom - but I'm the bird who stands still in the entrance of the unlatched cage, gazing out at the other birds flying free. Yearning to join them, and ignoring the open door.
At the park, I take one last glance at the still river, one last sniff of the fresh air.
Then I put away my journal and turn for home.
It's the sticky season, the stagnant season, when sweat and sunscreen mingle into mulch on my skin, and the heat is ever on my heels. I waft the door open and shut in the morning, hoping to chase out the heavy air; I flee to the shade of the park and gaze out at a river I've never seen anyone swim in.
I shower cold, and warm water sluices down my body.
It's a season of stillness, of loneliness - of lying on the floor as if to hide beneath the gaze of the heat, of greedily gulping at each sip of fresh air. A season of staring at the photos of others' adventures, wondering if I'll ever find one of my own.
It was always supposed to be the season of freedom - but I'm the bird who stands still in the entrance of the unlatched cage, gazing out at the other birds flying free. Yearning to join them, and ignoring the open door.
At the park, I take one last glance at the still river, one last sniff of the fresh air.
Then I put away my journal and turn for home.
Saw this on Latest Things
I like it. I am like it: The fourth and fifth paragraphs. Yes.
How do you do.