Sentimental Nostalgia

The walloping wind tore my upward posture into a bent-legged slouch. Gravel from the wind hissed along smooth stones and whisked up to tickle my nose. The sky was overcast. A blank fortress of distilled gray stretched across the horizon without blemish. A long field of flax slithered in the wind, vein-blue flowers shone in ripples like sun-dappled water. Sand ground between my teeth, it tasted like gasoline, grass, and astringent soil. I was torn. Should I trespass into dilapidated houses? Chase my faint shadow between crooked trees? Should I climb branches and count eggs or stare across the sloped shell of an eagle's egg while contemplating the embryo inside for a couple hours? Maybe I'll investigate the metal heap, assemble a line of well-rusted screws, and then watch the bull graze before racing with him across the bovine-cropped grass. I considered challenging the wind with a dirt bike, blood pulsating through my agitated body as I attempt self-destruction innumerous times. I wanted to wade through the sloughs, despite the irritation of the stagnant water -- I'd collect frogs before drying my legs off on the winnowed trampoline while the wind causes the weary springs to whine. I was torn. There was so much I wanted to do, but instead I took pleasure in standing by the empty road debating my possibilities. The grit between my teeth and persistent wind were my only companions for today, and in that moment I enjoyed their company more than any human being.

I'm going to be thinking about this all week. ASkdl;akwe. Thanks, Nathan.