Going Back is a Lot

There’s so much grass. Just a sea of it, surrounding me on all sides. A golden sea of wild grain and flowers.

I used to imagine this, I think. Sitting from a car seat as a kid, looking out the window onto the endless nothing of grass. You could run as fast as possible and nothing would stop you- the only obstacle in your way being the mountains piercing themselves into the sky.

A part of me still feels like if I ran as fast as possible I would hit them.

Splat, you know?

Like a bug?

I like them, they’re like walls holding us all together.

A guardian holding up the vault of the sky. A comforting character that never moves. It contains the golden sea, the flowers, the cities, the people, the dreams.

Only the unlucky slide through to the other side, tossed though the rocks only to arrive at waves of dunes on the other side. They try to name something for their own and before they know it, they’re pushed beyond what other people have claimed and straight into a land where owning an area is as physically laughable as it is abstractly laughable. How can you own something that existed long before you and will continue to exist long after you?

How can you own something that never really existed at all?

I run my hands over the top of the grass. You would think that the top of the grass would be so soft, looking at it. The sheen it reflects into the sky as the wind caresses the top would make you think so, at least.

It's actually pretty itchy. It’s itchy in a way where it sticks to you, and in a way where you then stick to everybody else. You feel like you can grab the air with your bare hands. Pull the vaulted sky down lower. Pull the sun down behind the mountains. Pull the wispy clouds down to create a dramatic fog.

The grass and the stickiness and the mountains and the dunes have me thinking more than usual. They always have me confused and lost inside them. Lost in so many places at once.

I’m thinking about tattoos. I like the thought of making a permanent scar on myself not because I was hurt, but because I wanted to be pretty. Too many scars are because we are hurt, not enough are because we want to be pretty and want to feel that hurt on purpose. We should be given the right to feel hurt on purpose.

Like grazing your hand over the top of the grass. Hurt on purpose. Discomfort for satisfaction.

Only a bit more permanent than the sand dunes hidden behind those guardians.

I didn’t pull the sun behind the mountain but it’s setting anyways. The golden grass is turning pink and purple. I want to take my hand and peel the film of color off. Paste it on my eyes so I can see these colors always.