Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

Green grass and no plans lure me closer than they ever have. I think they sense something in an individual, something that lends an ear to the whispers we all let out when we think no one is around. The small endearing murmurs we whisper to ourselves. Everyone does it. They are incongruous and unrealistic, but they still quell something inside of us that shudders too often at where we have stationed ourselves. Because we stand in the mud.

The drought we’d been in for the longest time starts to let the drops into the cracked earth and heal. We tilt our head and raise our eyes, boldly staring at the cascading rain, challenging.

We don’t realize that as we stand there and relish in the sweet plenty of water that we are slowly pressing further into the laden earth. High heels suddenly aren’t high any more, dress shoes sink in without a single protest, the slick treated leather cutting right through the mire.

Only when the cold seeps in over our ankles do we get even the slightest twinge of dawning. But it doesn’t matter. Now you’re clearing the droplets from your glasses with a hidden undershirt, knowing deep inside that only works the first few times. Soon you’ll be soaked through. Squinting through a fog of debilitating life. Sopping with what you thought you needed.

But now you miss the thirst you once had. You miss the desire to do something, anything. You miss overcoming on your own.

The cracked earth around you is no longer empty and the natural infrastructure is moving with the currents of the collected rain. Some rivers rush so quickly that the red soil crumbles and smoothes in on itself as it circles your feet.

You find yourself looking down now, for the first time really seeing the earth that is swallowing you. It doesn’t look so bad. You’re only in up to your calves. The cold feels refreshing against your skin. You smile and shift around, acting like a kid at the beach when the water’s edge slowly buries your feet in the sand. But your shifting does nothing. A crease furrows on your brow as you glance down again. Only the slightest ripple shows you’re even attempting to move. The mud doesn’t even protest with its sloppy grunts. It has you.

The refreshing chill against your skin now turns to pinpricks. Teeth chattering, you look up into the raincloud and realize you waited too long.