The Turning Point [18 Jan 2004|07:49pm] 

The purr of the coffee machine has stopped and soon you'll get 
up to pour yourself a cup. The smell alone is tickling your 
thoughts alive.

You've just stopped typing. That's three e-mails written and 
only the least stressful are left. A stream of sunlight hits 
you from the right and you look to see that the sun has moved 
above the brown peak of the neighboring roof.

Your chair creaks in an unworried way as you turn to the left, 
glancing down at your feet. Fat knit socks. Perfect.

Your eyes trace the pattern of your worn, housebound jeans. Stop 
at the knee and touch - one finger, then two. The fabric is more 
worn here than in other places. A nail snags on the fabric and 
you pull back abruptly. Your reverie vanishes and a rush of ocean 
water, deep and fast and loud, comes from behind and wraps over 
both ears.

Other people buff their nails and trim their toenais and shave and 
clean and the laundry's done and the book is read and the movie 
seen and the party attended and the dinner made and the children 
bore and the rules understood.

You lay down in the hard sand and let the cold pull at your skin. 
This is where you belong. You're past the anger and the why, it's 
been years since you threw your hands at the sky and demanded to 
know what makes you different, what puts you on the outside.

Don't ever think that that means you've grown accustomed to the 
roar, the shame. You're not on the inside and that means you 
aren't anywhere. You will never be comfortable here and you don't 
have the invitation to there.

You dig your hands into the sand but the grains escape and you're 
pulled away, swirling screaming. Gone.