Pressing
It’s one of those days when my stomach is pressing against my chest, and my lungs is playing tick tock toe with its own breath. My adrenaline is running a hundred miles marathon per hour and my arteries are bouncing up and down the trampoline from the sound of the heavy metal pounding in the background.
This closely knitted community with all its clarity is composing its own rhythm but you cannot tell from whence it begins. The story about the crop and the young maiden wearing the new frock with the billiard balls positioned on the table waiting at the corner to make the first shot. I still have this strange feeling inside that makes me want to move but there is nothing substantial to choose from so I wait for destiny to propel me along.
The area around me is cluttered but I can still find a breathing space and water to wet my tired face. The threads on the tire are screaming, and my shoe laces are reeling, my dinner plate is waiting at the gate and the wood cutter is composing a new symphony with logs and aluminum pots.
All fears are boiled out of me and water is boiling at three hundred degree. There is always a story to tell even if you are trapped in the darkest hell.
The days are getting longer and my patience is getting shorter. I am surrounding with walls and trees and a big water tank leaning against the wall and if you stand against it, it will make you feel small.
Two concrete structures and a board house trapped inside its own middle are waiting on top of the hill for the drill, and the bushes around makes the board house look like a clown a long night gown.
The sky is turning blue and the crickets are composing symphony number two. The sound is celebrating with the sky and the trees are waving goodbye. I am pressing towards the finishing.
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2021
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