spring

I forgot that the air could feel like this.

It’s not the heat, but the way that the molecules stand in the atmosphere. It’s the gel that binds reality together that has taken a new shape, invisible, but knowable. Subtly knowable, because the parts inside of you that make up the atmosphere too can recognise each other, can recognise this shift. I know that this feels different.

There are bugs flying around that I haven’t seen since that time in year nine when I thought that a truck full of cotton must have fallen over because they don’t look like bugs, no they just look like wisps of cotton lilting absentmindedly in the air. One has landed on my knee.

The trees outside my window grew leaves so quickly I’ve almost forgotten that they were bare this time last week. This time last week, where was I? Here, but not here, I swear it was different.

And how arbitrary, that the way I see things can be so easily influenced by the placement of the planets and the sun and the whole arrangement of the universe in the grand scheme of things. It’s not winter and this fact is so arbitrary, though I’m not quite sure that arbitrary is the right word. The world is spinning on it’s axis and the atoms have turned a quarter to the right and you can’t tell just by looking. But you can feel it when things are still.

I forgot that the air could feel like this.

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