Sweet balsamic

It’s strange, the way the mind’s eye works. That it’s only when something gets deeper, that everything around it becomes less obscured. Or the way that the longer something lingers, it becomes less heady and potent. It seems to defy logic, the way our minds catch up with the world around us. Without a still point to spot, we’re merely trying to untangle all that stimulates us until the Earth’s kilter evens out again.

Suddenly you’re making choices instead of being dragged behind a car. You have more of a say than you did even when your desperate heart was pounding out it’s great wishes. Now I know exactly where my feet fall, and I place them forward intentionally. It’s not that I didn’t expect the blur to subside, it’s that you start to expect that this might just be the way the world looks.

It’s a sticky, reduced thing that coats the back of my throat with its acidic delicacy. It’s the strong smell of leather in the summer heat. It’s sunshine so bright it makes your eyes water. It’s the things you’ve always known dialed up to eleven. Senses tuned keenly to the sensations that once ensnared us. It’s falling into a warm bath and finding your breath underwater. It’s the world lurching to a crawl so that nothing, not even time, may inhibit this yet.

*authored in March 2021

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