The Stories We Tell Ourselves
Sometimes I wish I could watch the trees sway for a day without interruption. I wish I could expel my phone into a deep dungeon. I wish I could look up for once and see the leaves rustling like feathers in the sighs of the wind, feel the light splitter splatter from the river’s glistening surface dampen my skin, the shimmering silver effervescence appearing the way sparkling water tastes, bubbling and gushing over itself along meandering banks. I wish I could touch the soil, feel roots packed like chords under a desk and sit there, content with its beauty. I wish I could remain satisfied with observing ordinary truths.
