birth

Each flower that blooms is inertia in motion. Someone planted a seed in this spot once – intentional. It got watered by the rain and watering can, and before you knew it it burst forth on one dewy morning to kiss the sun rays. A surfer passes this flower on his way to work, carrying his board to the nearby beach. The air smells sweet like salt and suntan lotion. He locks his car by pressing the keys inside is swim trunks’ pocket. It is 7 AM and the dawn is breaking. Still cool, still chilly. He is wearing a loose, blue sweatshirt. It fits baggily on his fit body. Approaching the water, his feet touch cold sand and it is at first, jarring to have this sensory experience. He knows the water won’t be forgiving, but he goes forth. It is a ritual. Every morning before eggs and coffee he must commune with the great yawn of ocean in his backyard. Every morning he wills himself to be baptized and reborn upon ocean shores, spit out by waves like a less glamorous Venus. He has a secret. He has a vendetta. He has lost someone. He thinks of that flower. That yellow daffodil he passed this morning as he paddles out and beyond. He sits on his board and looks around, relishing the solitude, knowing it will not last. Proving something to himself and to God that yeah, he’s here – again. He did this. He got himself here. Because 80% of life is showing up, and shouldn’t that count for something? Sometimes it’s not how fast you do a thing, but the consistency at which you do it. The salty air saturates his nostrils and he hears the gulls circle and cry out. He’s been riding little speed bumps of waves, but has not intuitively selected the one he’s going to start out with this morning. Finally he feels a stirring, a rumble. He paddles forward and brings himself to stand with bent, flexible knees. He focuses all his energy on his abdominals and the balance he requires of them. His stance is wide. He rides that wave down the coastline before it collapses and him along with it. Submerged, peaceful again, rock and roll waves rush over his head and he thinks to himself, “What if I didn’t get up?”

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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