I counted 419 stones on the retaining wall around Lake Bonny and thought I was finally growing to like the place, until they mulched my favorite tree and now it hurts the butt to sit against it.
Above is the sum total of what I remember, or deem significant enough for record. As I traveled along the short shoreline with a plastic bag in hopes of collecting random bits of trash pieces, I could not help but be distracted by the thought of counting stones. Yes, I picked up a plastic water bottle, a styrofoam cup, some food wrappers floating in the water; but all the time I felt so absent-minded, staring at the retaining wall every so often. I just had to do it.
So I took off my shoes, socks.
Barefoot, my toes kisses each stone. Am I truly leaving this place? How many sunsets have I seen from this angle? How often have I thought that the wind caressing me had blown all the way from across the Gulf, across Mexico, across the entire Pacific, from my home in China? And remember that time I brought the guitar out to strum out some random chords for no apparent reason? My heart had been broken, once, no twice. No countless times for since when did my heart stop breaking? I had felt like a Gypsy, free-spirited, or wished to be but found myself trapped by college drama, chapels, office tasks, and workaholism to drown them all out. Madness is not allowed in an excellent Christian's life, so I suppressed it. Suicide isn't either, what I contemplated at that tree, what the waters allured me to in its murmurs. This, too, is coming to an end.
I think it was something like a memory cleanup.
Above is the sum total of what I remember, or deem significant enough for record. As I traveled along the short shoreline with a plastic bag in hopes of collecting random bits of trash pieces, I could not help but be distracted by the thought of counting stones. Yes, I picked up a plastic water bottle, a styrofoam cup, some food wrappers floating in the water; but all the time I felt so absent-minded, staring at the retaining wall every so often. I just had to do it.
So I took off my shoes, socks.
Barefoot, my toes kisses each stone. Am I truly leaving this place? How many sunsets have I seen from this angle? How often have I thought that the wind caressing me had blown all the way from across the Gulf, across Mexico, across the entire Pacific, from my home in China? And remember that time I brought the guitar out to strum out some random chords for no apparent reason? My heart had been broken, once, no twice. No countless times for since when did my heart stop breaking? I had felt like a Gypsy, free-spirited, or wished to be but found myself trapped by college drama, chapels, office tasks, and workaholism to drown them all out. Madness is not allowed in an excellent Christian's life, so I suppressed it. Suicide isn't either, what I contemplated at that tree, what the waters allured me to in its murmurs. This, too, is coming to an end.
I think it was something like a memory cleanup.
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