Her favorite name for candy was Starburst.
Her favorite name for a recycling company that she had recently taken notice of was Cloudburst.
These expulsions. They could almost bring her to her knees. Drive away the demons. These slightest of suggestions.
Those were the days where everything had meaning. Lights turning green were indicative. If a dog barked twice. For a tangerine peel to come off, maintained in one connected piece without coming undone beneath her fingers. If the penny tossed while feeding the meter turned up on tails. Everything told something.
Everyday she wore items that fit the same description. Khaki shorts, tie died shirt of some sort, gauzy white scarf. A purposeful precaution should she turn up missing, she’d be easy to describe. Her fears over-arching, ever present. That head of hers; full of responsibility. Filled with thoughts in shapes of slippery cold poles so hard to hold with a brain like greased palms. Thin veil between psychedelic induced psychosis and one perhaps slipped into her drink. So suspicious. She could be found on the beach, laying in a tangle, trying to distinguish between which kind.
Luckily there were the calming elements. It could be sourced from a passing truck with the simplest of messages. Or the cold awake wide open feel of ocean. Ocean. Ocean. It’s own sentence. Paragraph. Novel. Her biggest self. It tousled and it soothed. And snails. How she loved them. The time they took. The swirl continuum. The iridescent remnants. Did they have a destination, or did they just go for it? A model, indeed. Be more like the snail– she would breathe this into the bottom of her belly. Someone had to own the mantra. Be more like the snail. Time is on my side. Even if this was said in rushed fashion it provided a balloon’s weight of worth off her back. She had these things. Palms unneeded. It could be nice.
This woman was the first person to be recognizable in containing a purposeful aimlessness. What an achievement. Her town’s people thought she a gentle kook. All weary smiles. She knew they knew of the springboard that lay within. Of this she was sure. Unhingable at any moment sans notice.
But what are their skeletons? She wondered often.
A good question, though not everyone’s dance like hers.
A doe-eyed doctor once told her to give up the sauce. She had taken to drinking spirits because of the name implication. The potentiality of unknown company. Another soother. Absinthe was a no-go, of course. Too close. Too witchy. She knew the limits. But challenge herself she did, and lessen her mania she had, when it came to cutting back on such a vice. Good job good job, said the voices from her sidelines, despite her bag being no stranger to a buttery cognac. Remy Martin just sounded like such a protector.
The sound of things. Eyes being the first line of defense, only once approved would her mouth take it on. No sense in tempting fate.
Explosions always on the horizon, lest they be unuttered and ignored.
Only a sunburst could make way.