hair
I'm on my bike and I have a piece of hair in my mouth. It's my own hair, so it's not gross or anything, but it still feels alien and strange. I am acutely aware of it, lodged between my lips, as I cycle down the hill. I still watch the road and think my idle morning commute thoughts, but a part of me is also focused on the tiny strand of red, solid against my tongue. I prod it gently, making sure it's there, a tiny anchor holding my focus. The hair feels like a bookmark, stuck on a key passage between pages, or like a long, poignant note in a string quartet that makes you hold your breath. It's a distraction, since my hands are busy, but it also pulls me back into my body as my mind wanders, its alienness a sharp reminder that I am human, that I am hurtling through space, that my hair is getting longer, and that a southwest wind is blowing.