On the cement I sit here and try hard not to think. The floor is cool beneath me. I wish I was wearing shorts. I wish I felt more alive. My thoughts are battles, conversations, storytelling; bearing witness to me and my rambling life always, retelling this story that is still developing. I sit between painted metal walls, an earthy brown color. The door on the left is blue, and the door on the right is green. The wind is engaged in this quiet moment, it is anticipating but peaceful. Breathe. I would rather do something. Relax, I tell myself. I recite and refocus and am frustrated because I am 'doing' not resting. The goal is to not do anything, but to just be.
In the rugged scene in front of me, I see movement. The gardener, bending over in the distance, pulling at the weeds. What the hell is motivating her? What is growing in that garden, that makes her want to come day after day, to work on it? Her curly haired grandson yells her name. His little figure is wild and so small against the sweeping scape, the backdrop of wrinkled hills and mountains, the tops meeting a light sky. It's beautiful. I live by the mountains, I remind myself. This detail is one that is always riveting. It shocks me every morning. I sigh and roll my eyes at life. I feel it again, the anger that gives me energy. I would rather punch the damn walls until my heart breaks open. I growl. My bible is flopped nearby, where I threw it. I hear footsteps nearby, softly echoing on metal walls. If someone comes around the corner, I don't know what I'd say, I realize. Oh, I am just sitting here. Angry. Did you hear me growl? Want to join me? I want someone to talk to. Sometimes I laugh at the state of me, at my frustrations and awkward prayers. But sometimes laughing is painful, like crying.
The footsteps fade away. I lay down and take a slow, deep breath. The pavement is cold and reminds me of Raven. Smooth and comforting, somehow. Staring upward, I see the roofs from the left and the right, stretching out to meet each other. They cover a lot of the sky. My eyes are wide. I see the chain linked fence, and the edges of the roof like puzzle pieces pulled apart, like some ground broken by earthquake, like I want my ribs to crack open and pull wide apart to let some grace in. The sky is blue and bits of white clouds are flawless. I wish I could paint like that. It would probably take forever to mix the white and blue, so it would be just right. Maybe I can only see a small piece of this great infinite painting. I bet there's so much more. I know it even as I lie on the cement with such a small view of the vast ocean. Either way, I believe in the blue that swallows the black.
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