The sand will settle on the ocean floor while the wind rages above.
by Esperando
(341 views) - 1/22/05
(recorded 1/22/05 @ 12:50:43 PM)
Once again, my stomach is sick; a mini-storm rages in my belly...or is it only a small pain in my chest? I bow my head, too ashamed to raise it and look into eyes that look through my own as if I weren't there. You're in the fetal position. Yes, I am. How else can you rock back and forth upon these internal infernal waves?

A sinking feeling, like lead dropping through water--from gullet to thrashing waves below. (You are no anchor.) And I swallow. This is going to hurt. I squeeze my eyes shut, wrap my arms around my knees tightly, secure the lock and the ropes to bind me there. Can you feel it plummet? My head is hot and my stomach feels like it will burst (or are those my eyes?). Whatever the feeling--there she goes. Ker-plunk.

Are you without remedy? There is no panacea for the common cold. At least not one that men can grasp. You are too feeble. Will this, I'm asking, will this continue? An eternal cycle of calm giving way to storms and tidal waves lurching inside? Can eyes that claim to see my own, really see them? Because there are so many others--blue, green, gray, hazel, brown--that may seem so alluring. Or perhaps it is only because of these waves that I ask these rhetorical questions, tossed on a wall, spewed upon a page once blank.

There is erosion; there is entropy; there is beauty found in sailing ships. (There is beauty also in sailing crayon-colored paper crafts.) The anchor has landed, and sand rises from the ocean floor in a peaceful cloud.

Then the sand settles, slowly and with grace.
Next entry: Yellow
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