tidepulls

today the old familiar urge to fly away is tugging at the backs of my shoulderblades with gusto, with necessity. i am poised on the edge of sprouting wings just to escape, start over again, or start somewhere new, where no one knows my name. the inner ocean is listless, lapping at the edges, tidepulling.

always the ocean. i crave to be beside it like a long-distance love. to curl up in a cradle of sand and lie there while the sound and fury of waves lull me to sleep. to have the wet, salt air and the living, briny scent it carries, purge the dry mountain dirt from my shallow lungs so i can breathe deep again and feel like i'm living and not just subsisting in some perpetual slide with no inertia, a movement state of solely residual energy and the lack of opposing forces.

i want grey sky and grey water and the tempest dance of them together on the horizon, in front of god and everyone, but mostly me. instead of hidden behind the fortress walls of these mountains. this giant bowl of earth and people and smog and all the wrong colours of gray. that yellow brown blah gray that leaves nothing in your soul but a sour, brittle note. reverberating and repeated until you wish you could go deaf. until you feel like double or nothing-ing the van gogh challenge, not for a lost love but for a lost will. or maybe a lost longing for love, which might be worse.