club day justwrite

Herding cats in the faculty meeting, tile splitting apart like the plates of the Earth, things that seem small when you think of them without letting your feet tell you where they've been, which faults they've pointed out and scraped along the sand, dropping a rock into the sea from the ocean floor, knowing anything can float if you tell yourself it will. I break the light apart in my hands, not expecting it to crumble so easily, a battered shell pried from the boulder at the base of a hill, thinking it's holding up the whole world when really there's a lot of glue at the seams. The thread is just for show, spinning itself and unspinning upon the floor, running to the edges of everywhere I've been but cutting itself off before I can taste what the air is like on the outside, like my mind, like clouds caught in boxes, mist that disappears when you open the lid, but you wanted the emptiness anyway since I've always told you how great it is. There's nowhere to put the corners anymore, so I fill them with dust and watch them float away, the tides ceasing for an hour until the shadows meet the horizon, as untouched as my skin as I rest, my feet dangling into the sky, tracing symbols I like to trick myself into reading as if they mean something, as if I haven't already swallowed all of it, let it dig its way out of my throat, fingers pricking holes in the beach, expecting them to fill with blood but there's only starlight, and it's then that you realize the moon rose days ago, that it's been waiting for you to say goodbye ever since, not expecting a hello. In the summertime, I forget, let paint pour into my soul and trickle out the bottoms of my feet so the new ideas can follow me, teach themselves a new map of a new continent, free of waves, with lakes that rest silently under a sunny haze, reaching out toward the horizon but never quite touching it, waiting for the moon to rise, watching the rest break apart in your hands.