She leapt through age, even as she knew tip-toeing was the more logical approach. The skies bled their failure in cold hues when she saw them, never in the vibrant pallet of her youth, but in lovely melancholic blues and she wondered if that’s why they called it the blues. Somewhere in the alleys of her memory, the refrain from an old song echoed as if spilling from a dive bar on a too-late night on the wrong end of town. She wanted a life bigger than this, but then too found it terrifying to place a foot forward in any direction, the comfort of stasis too thick a blanket in the cold of these days. She was haunted, though. Her intelligence spoke loud of the bottle in which she was living, walls high and seemingly unscaleable, but transparent, alluring, devastatingly inviting. And there far above her, at dizzying heights that tripped her vertigo and both tempted her while forcing her to hide, was a fountainhead. She stared long at it. She dreamed of shaking her world so hard that it tipped and she fell out into the threat and awe of tomorrow, where skies threaded their sad reflection of the sea with the fiery passion of the sun’s raging heart. She would wake up from these musings with familiar worries surrounding her, carefully vetted possibility as beige as the walls of her bedroom. She would sigh. She would decide to paint the room a new color, a baby step into the future, a safe bet required by the wisdom of youth. But her heart had already broken the shell of everything safe, escape now so simple she could taste it like salt on sea breeze. She was already living tomorrow. She was now holding into the past.
My amazingly talented and beautiful friend @theeglantine took this photo. I supplied the words. Because that’s what I do.
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