The air smells like ozone and damp earth.
It’s heavy, palpable-- it sits weightily on my skin, my shell, and I feel swollen with it. I’m absorbing the world around me. It moves through my blood, warming me uncomfortably--I am already hot and itchy with movement and memories as the creatures moving under the soil stir up scents of long days in the woods without purpose.
Purpose swelters me now, a constant whirring in the back of my head and in the sheltered space between my breastbone, dragging me forward.
Would I collapse without it? Could I continue forward without that constant aching that urges me onward through exhaustion, through fear and doubt?
My future smells like rain on the grass, wet wood and hay, and I let myself be pulled toward it as instinct takes over. I follow meekly the tug in my chest, the promise of rest, a misty breath that rolls through me and, for a moment, calms the electricity in my limbs.
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