Page Four

Gulp.
Why am I so blog shy?
And hungover?
I'm on my 3rd cup of coffee
and I didn't get up until 8:30 . . .

Groan.
Page four.
Type, d*mnit, type!

I'd rather finish my laundry . . .
what's wrong with me??
I'm blogging laundry. Enough.

Page four:
EXIT 197 to Winston-Salem
I-40 @11:40am

Why don't I like swimming past the break anymore?
Is it the water temperature this early in the season?
Why don't I want to go out, past my chest?
Stretch my body out in the heavy salt.
Let my wet hair wrap around my neck and ears.

Instead, I keep mostly dry, my eyes to the shore, the sand.
The people--mothers and children. Kites and castles.

The water is murky when you come to it.
The blues are simply illusions,
illusions caused by the untouchable sun
reflecting through the cresting waves.
I watch these blues from the deck and they look inviting.

Up close, I can't see the bottom.
Even if the water feels clear,
I can't see what's really underneath.
I feel the lovely gritty sand,
yet I can't see what's holding me up,
or what might be sharing this space with me.
What's worse: I can't tell if sea creatures
are friend or foe.
Benevolent or malevolent.
It's only a prefix.

Watching the endless horizon, blue defined by blue,
well, hurts in it's dullness.
I should be awed. I look west
and see four layers:
surf, sand/people, houses/structures, sky.

I am between. Caught in a liminal space
of which I cannot define.