by Ada J. Raven

I swear I’d never worry about earning a cent again if it weren’t for the small inconvenience of living.

I would sit here all day, with salty wind stroking my face and ruffling my hair.

The plaster on my forearm won’t stay put; I fiddle with it regularly.

Gulls easily flap on the breeze, landing on the water to bob like corks. I wish sometimes that I could join them.

I feel guilty that I have these thoughts. Within the same vessel that yearns for a family and children and a career and a home, there exists a desire to forgo all of that.

It’s the uncertainty that works away at me. Sometimes it makes as much sense as words without meaning or a face when you stare at it too long.

And it comes in unexplainable waves.

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