This time of year, i live and breathe the beach. my cheeks feel raw with the wind throwing sand against them. my thighs sting from the friction of the saddle. my arms ache from holding up two thousand pounds of horse. i have forgotten what it is like to be warm and what a full night’s sleep feels like and what my name sounds like spoken instead of shouted across yards of sand. i am so, so alive.
To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening age; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music, made after long silence. The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again
I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how i was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that i didnt understand. Maybe i was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldnt let me.
It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return.