Some people spend entire lives in the shallow end, wading their way through murky waters that suppress and haunt their dreams. There’s safety in the shoreline and slow, sure death. Never one to wade, I walked before I learned to crawl.
Ninety miles an hour down an open stretch of road, my destination anywhere adventure was ripe to consume. I left home at seventeen with a heart full of hubris and a hundred bucks. I knew what every diploma burdened teen understood about life, which was to say, absolutely nothing.
Art in levered shades; the blue-eyed boys, hues of blood, and whitecap lips of love and loss. Beneath the skyscrapers, I learned to crawl.
In the end, I returned to the seas hoping to stay afloat. Would the salt in my wounds be enough?
We age, shield ourselves from the sun, come in from the rains, but we wade. We wade in the shallow depths of our own misery.
© Grace Black
Written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest