novembers at home
When I was twelve I would crack open the window and press my palms to the glass, feel the air cut across my face, surprisingly gentle for the harsh noise it would make. How small I felt in relation to the way the wind worked, but yet how content. In those days, I didn't feel that life was short of a miracle.
Now, it's harder to find big miracles in small spaces; with age, everything seems to have lost a little flexibility, which is ironic because I've achieved touching my toes and now I want to touch the world. I want to press my palms against every glass pane but yearn instead to feel the warmth of every room I look into, feel each human presence and wonder how the walls painted in white and blue and green make an ocean of people. Each nautical mile I traverse makes lovely bobbing sounds that are closer and quieter than the wind, but make me sicker, more tired, but in strange and charming ways. I feel more things with less emotion; I don't make a seascape out of a puddle, I make a seascape out of a seascape.
Still, storms do get me. Outside, it's cold and wet with lone flakes of snow. I'm straining to hear the wind.
Now, it's harder to find big miracles in small spaces; with age, everything seems to have lost a little flexibility, which is ironic because I've achieved touching my toes and now I want to touch the world. I want to press my palms against every glass pane but yearn instead to feel the warmth of every room I look into, feel each human presence and wonder how the walls painted in white and blue and green make an ocean of people. Each nautical mile I traverse makes lovely bobbing sounds that are closer and quieter than the wind, but make me sicker, more tired, but in strange and charming ways. I feel more things with less emotion; I don't make a seascape out of a puddle, I make a seascape out of a seascape.
Still, storms do get me. Outside, it's cold and wet with lone flakes of snow. I'm straining to hear the wind.