Sometimes putting feelings into words seems like treachery.
Stuck in a rut between wanting to record and wanting to possess what ethereal emotions come.
Like lying still on a mattress on the floor of an old, old house. All is quiet. And then you're lurched suddenly and the hammock swings leisurely while an utterly blue sky smiles, quietly penetrating those closed eyes and an open smile. While nothing has moved and nothing has happened.
There's hot sand untouched yet emanating a weary drowsiness from the earth, legs splayed trying to touch the ground without trying, a toenail grazing across the grainy texture, stretching out and submerging your feet into the simple welcoming warmth.
On your stomach, under a fuzzy blanket, face dimly lit by the new age candle of pixels stretched across a vast window of tiny words, invisible gestures and minuscule parts of being. Wondering why there are no birds at night. Hovering over orange buttons and yawning into a pillow.
Complete peace and complete chaos. And they wash over you.