black sand.

There is something refreshing about being cold. It’s such a clean feeling, uncomfortably pure, like ice forming on a bare tree branch, a baby taking her very first step, all so necessary and revitalizing.  She has been thinking of how divided we all are, but why? There is a strange feeling in the air, one of loneliness lightly sprinkled upon welcomed solitude, the end of something vital, comforting intervals, blank paper, long lists. Her hair flows down her back, reaching desperately toward a surface it will never get the chance to touch, providing her with soothing confidence that others desire to steal. I am ashamed for not treating life like the wonderful blessing it is everyday, for becoming lost in the problems that drain energy from my skin, bones, hair and muscles, for allowing people to affect me at times when I find myself falling and unable to rise up from the ground without feeling completely broken. There are so many things left to say, and I am sick of having regrets that cyclically bite me, catching me off guard, throwing heavy rocks down on me as I lay across the cold earth. The effects of this brutal stagnation are appearing in every day actions, thoughts, desires, causing me to lose the hope that I am so adamant in carrying around with me. It’s becoming almost impossible to fool myself, thank God. Thank God that there is some progress, but such progress seems to be taking away from the motion I so painfully desire to feel once again. How is this possible?