shoulda jumped
How do I paint with my words when I am the drunkard and they are my feet? The answer is with many painstakingly long moments. How many pretentious utterances will fall out of me until I receive praise for not being concise? How many social scientists are praised for doing the same? Studies have shown that yellow belongs in the sun, not in the leaves. Summer was fun, bring back the blues and greens. Gray belongs in my heart, not in the sky. My heart belongs in the vast ocean, where I am scared, but free to grow until I am no longer intimidated. At the least, I’ll exist until I see there was nothing to be afraid of, no point to get. What body will hold me then? Whether my heart grows or ego shows, I will still make it a point to be by myself, as I am now. A golden-brown boat is suddenly plucked from its dormant wooden dock and traces the wind down to the lake, where it dances over to me, beckoning for me to jump in. I break my daze to write about it, look back to describe it more, and it is gone. I should have jumped.