Sometimes I go down to the park to visit Paula. Her plaque reads 'free spirit', and I wonder what that meant to her.
Lips chapped and cheeks rosy from the chilled air that plays, pulls at my ruffled hair. Tight gloves, my fingers are constricted.
I imagine she had warm fingers, and a good laugh. Her lips were full and well-kissed without regret. She liked to skinny dip. Her eyes were filled with mischief, and when you locked with them, you became intoxicated.
I imagine she liked to take deep breathes. I imagine that she liked to close her eyes and call into the canyon. I imagine she hitch-hiked to her intentions.
Uninhibited and running with the high, I imagine she might have died topless, living in the field of geese. Somehow serene.
Jesus was quite the rebel in his day.
It’s all about clarity.
It’s like an essay, it’s like a physics equation. WWMD? It’s always like an essay.
“...His love hate affair with his racist clientele...”
There’s always a love hate affair. I wonder if I was different than the ones before me, or if I’m a standard, mass produced.
It’s not test anxiety, it’s life anxiety.
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