Humidity from the creek hangs in the air, giving it texture and weight. The pink salt lamp, shaped like clay in cupped palms, has been absorbing invisible droplets and giving them life in a sticky puddle around the base that bleeds into the roughly cut wood of the windowsill.
The floor is damp as well, smelling of my obsessive cleaning. The soles of my feet are vaguely scented of cleaner and creek, creased with sand from wandering thoughtlessly and bare outside to move varnished wood pieces and drying towels into the sunlight.
I move restlessly between the in and the out, damp indoors and dry, hot sand and grass. I pick things up and carry them with me without realizing. A stale cup of water. A tarot card. Sunglasses. I gather them from one area and relocate them without purpose. Pacing like an animal inside, I move outdoors, reassuring myself of my freedom.
The door is open. I am not caged.
The dog and the cat have grown tired of following me on the pointless path I am tracing and sit in the sun, watching me with mild curiosity.
I am not caged. I am not alone.
I hold a book, feeling the solid, flexible form the pages make when pressed together, and then I set it aside, moving back onto the lawn, following the brick edge of the house, careful to avoid touching the new growth of nettles with my naked skin. Eyes follow me, blinking in the sun. They wait patient, knowing I’ll still once the urgency in my blood has faded.
I pace, inside and out, inside and out, waiting for the nameless insistency to cool and settle.
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